at 


JUST   HORSES 


SEWELL  FORD 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


JUST   HORSES 


BY  SEWELL  FORD 

HONK,  HONK!! 
CHERUB  DEVINE 
SHORTY  McCABE 
SIDE-STEPPING  WITH  SHORTY 
HORSES  NINE 
TRUEGATE  OF  MOGADOR 


1  ISN'T    HE    A    DEAR  ?  " 


JUST  HORSES 


by 

SEWELL  FORD 


Illustrated 


MITCHELL   KENNERLEY 
NEW  YORK  MCMX 


Copyright  1910  by 
Mitchell  Kennerky 


35 // 

if-  __^  r x  / 

~     <f 

JUST     HORSES 

Jerry  1 l 

Keno:  A  Cayuse  Known  to  Fame  39 

The  Life  of  the  Crowded  Way  73 

The  Story  of  Pericles  of  Spread  Eagle  Battery  9  7 

Fiddler  125 

The  Straying  of  Lucifer  155 

Deacon:    And    How    He    Took    Out  the 

Christmas  Mail  183 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Isn't  he  a  dear?,"  Frontispiece 

"I'll  smash  the  face  av  ye"  6 

The  man  played  like  a  fiend  54 

Deacon  refused  to  budge  196 


JERRY 


JERRY 


BORN  to  the  tight  trace  and  bred  for 
the  long  haul  was  Jerry.  So  there 
was  no  nonsense  about  him.  From  square, 
honest  muzzle  to  solid  rump  he  was 
soundly  built,  fashioned  for  work  and  for 
nothing  else. 

Yet,  when  he  was  first  hooked  into  Mr. 
P.  Dolan's  new  single  truck,  a  vehicle  as 
substantially  built  as  Jerry  himself,  the 
turnout  was  one  in  which  pride  might  be 
taken.  Mr.  P.  Dolan,  although  little 
given  to  vain  thoughts,  certainly  viewed  it 
with  satisfaction.  As  for  the  truck,  it  was 
the  best  that  money  could  buy.  Mr.  P. 
Dolan  had  seen  it  at  the  factory  before 
the  paint  and  varnish  had  gone  on.  He 
[11] 


JUST    HORSES 

knew  that  neither  in  spoke  or  felloe,  hub 
or  axle,  shaft  or  whiffle-tree,  was  there 
knot  or  flaw.  And  now,  shining  in  red  and 
gold,  with  never  a  scratch  or  dent  to  be 
seen,  with  his  name  and  license  number 
boldly  lettered  on  the  sideboards,  the  truck 
stood  for  two-thirds  of  his  entire  capital. 

Representing  the  other  third  was  Jerry. 
No  discredit  to  the  new  truck  was  Jerry. 
Did  every  angle  and  surface  of  the  truck 
give  back  the  sunshine;  well,  look  at  the 
polished  surface  of  Jerry's  rounded  quar 
ters,  look  at  his  shining  hoofs,  note  the 
brightness  of  his  big,  wide-set  eyes.  Mr. 
P.  Dolan  decided  that  chestnut  red  with 
black  points  was  the  ideal  color  combina 
tion  for  a  truck  horse. 

"  Looks  like  him  an'  the  truck  wor  made 
fer  aich  other,"  he  said. 

"  Sure,  ye'll  not  be  after  haulin'  dirthy 
boxes  and  bar'ls  in  that  purthy  wagon,  will 
[12] 


JERRY 

ye,  Pat?  "  asked  the  boarding  stable  boss. 

"I'll  load  nawthin'  but  ostrich  feathers 
an'  plush-covered  par-r-rlor  sets  the  day," 
said  Pat. 

Of  course  Pat  forgot  all  about  this 
pleasantry  when  once  he  reached  the  down 
town  cigar  store  where  hung  his  order 
slate.  It  was  mighty  fine,  to  be  sure,  this 
driving  a  branfire  new  outfit,  but  Pat  did 
not  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  all  this  mag 
nificence  had  cost  the  savings  of  four  long, 
work-filled  years,  three  as  a  hired  driver, 
and  one  as  the  boss  of  a  hired  cart  and  horse. 
Now  he  was  not  only  his  own  master,  but 
he  was  full  proprietor  of  his  outfit.  He 
figured  that  Monday's  receipts  should  pay 
for  Jerry's  stable  board,  leaving  the  rest 
of  the  week  clear  for  profit  making.  You 
can  imagine  that  Mr.  P.  Dolan  refused  no 
commissions.  "  General  Trucking  "  was 
the  legend  painted  on  his  order  slate,  and 
[13] 


JUST    HORSES 

that  meant  handling  any  kind  of  load, 
from  ill-smelling  barrels  of  ice-packed  fish 
on  the  Fall  River  pier,  to  cases  of  artificial 
flowers  picked  up  from  the  sweat  shop 
factories  along  South  Fifth  Avenue. 

You  may  imagine,  too,  that  Pat  hooked 
up  early  in  the  morning,  and  that  he  un 
hooked  only  when  the  last  load  had  been 
delivered.  A  full  slate  was  wThat  he 
wanted.  He  fretted  only  when  he  was 
compelled  to  sit  idly  on  the  truck-tail  wait 
ing  for  work. 

Of  idleness,  however,  there  was  no  great 
amount.  The  new  outfit  seemed  to  bring 
orders.  Shipping  clerks  looked  with  par 
tial  eye  on  the  spick  and  span  rig  of  Mr. 
P.  Dolan.  Often  they  watched  approv 
ingly  as  Jerry,  his  chestnut  coat  glistening 
from  the  morning  rub  down,  the  great 
muscles  knotting  and  flexing  on  his  solid, 
shaggy  fetlocked  legs,  came  pounding 


JERRY 

noisily  up  the  street  and  backed  with  pon 
derous  accuracy  to  the  curb. 

It  was  a  fine  sight,  too,  when  some  four 
tons  of  assorted  merchandise  had  been 
piled  on  the  truck,  to  see  Jerry  dig  in  his 
toe  calks,  throw  his  sixteen  hundred 
pounds  into  the  collar  and  swing  the  truck 
down  the  street  with  a  high  head-toss,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  Pooh!  This  is  nothing 
for  me,  nothing  at  all." 

Even  at  the  end  of  a  hard  day,  during 
which  Pat  and  Jerry  had  moved  perhaps  a 
dozen  tons  of  local  freight  to  different 
parts  of  the  city,  the  big  chestnut  would 
finish  in  as  good  shape,  apparently,  as  he 
had  started;  while  Mr.  P.  Dolan,  in  the 
fresh  vigor  of  his  early  thirties,  broad  of 
back  and  deep  of  chest,  needed  only  some 
trifling  refreshment — say  two  or  three 
pounds  of  corned  beef  and  potatoes  and  a 
pitcher  of  beer — to  feel  like  beginning  it 
[15] 


JUST   HORSES 

all  over  again.  After  supper  Pat  would 
fill  his  pipe,  put  his  heels  on  the  kitchen 
table  and  recount  to  Bridget  and  the  chil 
dren  the  number  of  loads,  the  weight  of 
them  and  the  estimated  profits  of  the  day's 
business.  Before  ten  o'clock  he  would  be 
asleep ;  dreaming,  perhaps,  of  a  long  pro 
cession  of  single  and  double  trucks,  each 
bearing  the  name,  in  big  gold  letters,  of  P. 
Dolan. 

Dreams  of  neither  past  nor  future  had 
Jerry.  He  lived  each  day  as  it  came,  ex 
ulting  and  glorying,  after  the  manner  of 
his  kind,  in  the  magnificent  strength  that 
lay  in  his  pliant  muscles.  You  should  have 
seen  him,  when  the  truck  was  light,  rat 
tling  down  through  the  tangled  swirl  of 
Broadway  traffic,  arching  his  neck,  switch 
ing  his  long  black  tail,  and  taking  fancy 
steps  that  were  prompted  by  the  pure  joy 
of  living.  Pat,  standing  on  the  truck 
[16] 


JERRY 

floor,  with  his  feet  planted  wide,  his 
thumbs  together  and  pointing  up — which 
is  the  way  your  true  truckman  drives,  you 
know — had  his  hands  full  in  keeping 
Jerry  from  ramming  the  shafts  through 
the  windows  of  cabs  and  street  cars.  A 
load  made  but  little  difference.  Jerry  took 
fewer  fancy  steps  then,  but  he  always 
seemed  to  have  a  reserve  fund  of  energy. 
Never,  in  those  days,  did  he  come  in  fully 
blown;  never  did  he  stand,  as  you  may 
sometimes  see  horses  standing,  with  heads 
lowered  and  flanks  heaving  like  hard 
pumped  bellows. 

Pat's  pride  in  his  big  horse  took  tangi 
ble  form.  To  the  practiced  eye  it  was  re 
vealed  in  the  number  of  utterly  superflu 
ous  bone  rings  decorating  the  harness,  in 
the  fox-tail  dangling  from  the  martingale, 
and  in  the  gorgeous  red  leather  rosettes  on 
the  bridle.  One  might  see  it  in  the  ribbons 
[17] 


JUST   HORSES 

braided  into  the  plaits  of  Jerry's  heavy 
black  mane  and  forelock.  Pat  wore  a  can 
vas  apron  and  tied  burlap  bagging  around 
his  shoes  in  winter,  but  for  Jerry  he 
bought  the  best  wool  blankets  and  thick 
chest  pads. 

It  was  not  until  the  year  of  Pat's 
branching  out  in  business  that  there  came 
a  change.  Just  in  the  middle  of  a  boom 
season  he  contracted  to  do  all  the  trucking 
for  a  big  firm  down  in  the  wholesale  dry 
goods  district.  Now  packing  cases,  such 
as  cotton  goods  are  shipped  in,  are  tre 
mendously  weighty  for  their  size.  You 
can  pile  five  tons  on  a  truck  and  not  half 
try.  It  was  really  double  team  work  that 
Jerry  did  that  year. 

"  Ought  to  have  another  horse  for  that 
load,  Dolan,"  they  often  told  Pat. 

"  Oh,  Jerry's  good  for  it,  eh,  boy?  "  Pat 
would  say,  slapping  the  big  chestnut's 
sleek  rump.  [  18  ] 


JERRY 

And  Jerry  was.  But  no  longer  did  Pat 
seem  to  have  time  for  those  little  atten 
tions  which  Jerry  liked  so  much.  There 
were  fewer  friendly  exchanges  of  confi 
dences  between  them.  The  morning 
grooming  was  brief  and  less  thorough. 
There  was  no  lack  of  oats,  though.  Jerry 
had  his  twelve  quarts  regularly,  and  some 
times  it  was  even  more. 

'  You  git  it  all  back  in  work,"  ex 
plained  Pat. 

For  Mr.  P.  Dolan  had  fixed  his  eyes  on 
wealth.  No  more  did  he  merely  dream  of 
that  long  procession  of  single  and  double 
trucks.  The  picture  was  in  his  mind  all 
day  and  every  day.  He  had  a  new  con 
tract.  He  had  put  on  another  truck,  noth 
ing  fancy  this  time.  Although  the  work 
was  more  than  doubled,  Jerry  and  one 
other  horse  did  it  all. 

"  Next  year,"  promised  Pat,  "  we'll  go 
out  double."  [  19  ] 


JUST   HORSES 

Then  came  that  which  the  city  folks 
were  pleased  to  call  a  blizzard.  Actually 
it  was  nothing  but  a  big  snowfall.  Over 
the  city  it  spread,  a  good  three  feet  of  it. 
The  street  cleaning  department,  being  wo- 
fully  inefficient  and  wholly  corrupt  as  to 
management,  merely  nibbled  at  the  mass 
of  it  and  waited  hopefully  for  rain.  The 
paving  in  the  middle  of  the  main  arteries 
was  bared,  but  the  tributary  streets  were 
left  hub  deep  with  the  discolored  slush  that 
had  once  been  snow. 

It  was  just  in  the  holiday  season,  too, 
when  the  wharves  were  heaped  with  in 
bound  merchandise  and  the  store  rooms  of 
the  wholesale  houses  were  choked  with 
bales  and  boxes  bound  out  on  rush  orders. 
Shipping  clerks  pleaded  and  threatened, 
railroad  men  fumed  and  levied  storage 
charges,  steamboat  officials  clamored,  driv 
ers  promised  and  protested,  and  everyone 
[20] 


JERRY 

swore    between    times  at  everyone  else. 

Through  it  all  Jerry  did  his  noble  best. 
With  but  half  loads  on  the  truck  he 
tugged  heroically  to  drag  the  wheels 
through  the  miry  streets,  he  slipped  and 
slid  and  skated  about  on  his  balled  hoofs, 
he  fought  his  way  through  street  jams,  he 
strained  every  nerve  and  muscle  from  five 
in  the  morning  until  late  at  night. 

A  whole  week  of  this  he  had  been 
through  when  one  day  the  thaw  set  in. 
The  winter  sun  climbed  as  high  as  it  could 
and  shone  dazzlingly  on  the  snow-clogged 
city.  The  mealy  mire  softened  to  a  mush- 
like  consistency.  It  clung  to  wheel  rims  like 
so  much  glue.  Pat  was  tons  behind  hand 
with  his  deliveries.  The  shipping  clerks 
were  frantic.  Why  couldn't  he  deliver 
their  stuff?  What  was  the  matter  with 
him  and  with  his  old  plugs  ? 

Seldom  before  had  Pat  used  a  whip  on 
[21] 


Jerry.  The  big  chestnut  had  needed  no 
such  spur.  But  that  day  Pat  swung  the 
lash  hard  and  often.  Stung  more  by  the 
injustice  of  the  cuts  than  by  the  pain, 
Jerry  jumped  vainly  in  the  traces  until  his 
splendid  muscles  stood  out  like  knotted 
cables.  Still  Pat  urged  him  on,  yanked 
his  head  viciously  this  way  and  that,  until 
the  great  chestnut,  that  had  never  known 
exhaustion,  was  almost  ready  to  drop  be 
tween  the  shafts. 

It  was  long  after  nine  o'clock  that  night 
before  Jerry  got  his  supper  and  was 
bedded  down,  but  before  daylight  next 
morning  he  was  hooked  in  again.  He  was 
in  bad  shape,  too,  for  beginning  such  an 
other  day.  One  hind  leg  was  so  badly 
sprained  that  he  walked  with  a  limp,  and 
not  a  muscle  of  him  but  was  lame  and  sore. 
Both  forelegs  were  barked,  too,  where  the 
toe  calks  had  bitten. 

[22] 


JERRY 

Worst  of  all,  though,  was  the  queer 
feeling  in  his  eyes.  They  seemed  to  be 
burning  in  the  sockets,  and  they  ached — 
how  they  did  ache!  Away  back  into  his 
head  the  pains  seemed  to  shoot,  as  if  some 
one  were  jabbing  in  hot  needles.  Also 
there  were  green  and  red  and  purple  spots 
dancing  before  him.  What  did  they 
mean?  Only  once  before,  when  his  wolf 
teeth  had  grown  too  long,  had  Jerry  ever 
known  anything  like  it.  But  this  was 
many  times  worse.  He  could  hardly  see 
for  the  jumping,  sliding,  floating  spots  of 
brilliant  color. 

Yet  he  buckled  to  the  work  with  dogged 
vigor,  thrusting  his  galled  shoulders 
against  the  collar,  plunging  at  haphazard 
through  jams,  hitting  a  hub  here,  locking 
wheels  there,  backing  with  desperate  en 
ergy  out  of  snarls,  scraping  the  fenders 
of  stalled  street-cars,  but  keeping  the  load 
[23] 


JUST   HORSES 

ever  on  the  move.  And  ever  Pat  urged 
him  on,  now  with  an  old-time  chirrup  of 
encouragement,  now  with  oath  and  whip 
stroke. 

Killing  work  it  was.  The  day  finished 
many  an  unsound  horse,  spoiled  many  a 
good  one.  But  what  would  you?  Com 
merce  waited.  The  captains  of  trade  thun 
dered  their  orders  over  'phones  from  be 
hind  the  ramparts  of  roller-top  desks. 
Move  the  goods!  Fill  the  orders!  Clear 
the  wharves!  Fill  the  cars! 

Noon  found  Jerry  and  the  piled-up 
truck  moving  at  funeral  pace  in  the  thick 
of  a  jam  that  stretched  from  Pier  A  to 
Canal  Street.  There  was  neither  time  nor 
opportunity  for  eating.  Jerry  did  not  care. 
He  had  other  things  to  think  of  than  the 
full  nosebag  swung  under  the  seat.  There 
were  the  color  spots,  for  instance.  They 
were  dancing  thicker  and  faster.  Then 
[24] 


JERRY 

there  were  his  bruised  muscles.  It  was  like 
tearing  them  apart  every  time  he  strained 
in  the  traces  to  start  the  mired  wheels. 
And  when  the  age-long  day  was  done 
at  last,  he  limped  broken  and  spiritless 
to  his  stall,  his  great  bulk  an  aching 
mass  of  dumb,  helpless,  unenlightened 
misery. 

"  Niver  mind,  old  bye,  termorrer's  Sun 
day,"  said  Pat,  "  and  on  Monday  we'll  go 
out  double." 

But  Pat's  sympathy  was  late  in  coming. 
The  mischief  had  been  done.  When  on 
Monday  morning  Jerry  was  led  out,  stiff 
and  sore,  to  be  hooked  up  to  a  pole  with  a 
hired  mate,  he  acted  queerly.  He  could 
not  find  the  water  trough  at  the  end  of  the 
stable  until  a  hostler  led  him  to  it.  On  his 
way  back  he  ran  into  a  post,  whereupon 
the  hostler  hit  him  with  a  shovel. 

"Aisy,  there,  aisy  with  that,  now!" 
[25] 


JUST    HORSES 

warned  Pat.     "  Raise  yer  hand  to  that 
horse  agin  an'  I'll  smash  the  face  av  ye." 

'  Then  tend  to  yer  fool  plug  yerself," 
retorted  the  hostler.  "  He's  blind  as  a 
bat." 

Although  this  charge  Pat  profanely 
denied,  it  was  more  than  half  true.  Jerry 
himself  was  slow  to  believe  the  thing. 
There  were  no  more  dancing  spots  to 
bother  him,  but  instead  there  seemed  to 
have  fallen  a  cloud  upon  things.  Perhaps 
it  would  be  better  when  he  got  out  in  the 
street.  But  in  the  broad  daylight  the  cloud 
remained.  Everything  was  vague,  indis 
tinct.  Barely  could  he  distinguish  the  out 
lines  of  his  new  mate  on  the  other  side  of 
the  pole.  As  for  distant  things,  they  were 
all  merged  into  one  blurred  mass.  What 
could  it  mean? 

"  Got  a  bit  av  a  cold  in  yer  eyes,  eh? " 
said  Pat  after  a  hasty  examination. 
[26] 


I  LL    SMASH    THE    FACE    AV    YE." 


JERRY 

Although  the  rain  had  come  overnight 
and  the  streets  had  been  left  almost  clear, 
Jerry  proved  an  awkward  horse  that  day. 
The  things  which  he  usually  avoided— 
holes  in  the  worn  asphalt,  car  rails,  man 
hole  covers  and  the  like — he  struck  blun 
deringly  with  his  hoofs.  Time  after  time 
did  a  quick  pull  on  the  reins  save  him  from 
sliding  on  his  knees. 

All  this  Jerry  did  not  understand.  Why 
could  he  not  see  where  he  was  going? 
What  was  the  matter  with  his  eyes?  If 
someone  would  only  wipe  them  clear  he 
would  be  all  right  once  more. 

But  never  again  was  Jerry  to  see 
clearly.  Day  by  day  things  grew  more 
blurred,  day  by  day  the  cloud  thickened. 
At  the  end  of  two  weeks  he  was  con 
scious  only  of  a  faint  glimmer,  and  this  in 
the  brightest  sunlight.  A  month  passed, 
and  then,  one  day,  the  cloud  closed  in  to 
[27] 


JUST   HORSES 

shut  out  even  this  spark  of  comfort. 
Jerry  was  left  in  absolute,  total  darkness. 

Mr.  P.  Dolan,  when  he  saw  the  opaque, 
blue  film  that  covered  Jerry's  eyes,  when 
he  had  waved  his  cap  before  Jerry's  nose 
without  making  the  big  chestnut  dodge, 
when  he  was  fully  convinced  that  Jerry 
was  wholly  blind—  — wrell,  Mr.  P.  Dolan 
made  pretense  of  buckling  a  throat  strap, 
but  really  he  was  using  his  coat  sleeve  to 
wipe  something  from  his  own  red,  rough 
ened  cheek.  Very  gently  did  he  speak  to 
Jerry  all  that  week,  often  did  he  pat  Jer 
ry's  powerful  neck,  long  did  he  stand 
looking  silently  and  remorsefully  at  Jer 
ry's  staring  but  sightless  eyes. 

"  I  feel  worse  than  a  low-down,  miser 
able  thafe  whin  I  luk  at  him,"  he  confided 
brokenly  to  Bridget.  "  Sure,  'twas  me  as 
did  it;  an'  him  such  a  fine,  willin'  beast!  " 

"  But  didn't  ye  see  the  vet'rinnery  man; 
[28] 


JERRY 

what  had  he  to  say? "  asked  Mrs.  Dolan. 

"  Said  it  wor  no  use  tinkerin'  with  the 
eyes  av  a  horse  that  had  been  worked  blind 
—worked  blind,  Bridget !  And  it  wor  me 
that  did  it!" 

Meanwhile  Jerry  was  acquiring  the  wis 
dom  of  the  blind.  He  was  learning  to  step 
high,  to  hold  himself  in  readiness  to  re 
cover  from  a  slip  or  stumble,  to  feel  the 
pole,  to  translate  the  message  sent  along 
the  lines  from  driving  hands  to  bits. 
Slowly,  little  by  little,  he  developed  that 
acuteness  of  hearing  by  which  the  ears  are 
made  to  do  the  work  of  the  eyes.  You 
might  have  seen  him  swinging  them — his 
ears,  you  know — one  forward,  the  other 
back,  to  catch  the  individual  sounds  which 
go  to  make  up  the  growling,  murmuring 
chorus  of  the  crowded  streets. 

He  had  grown  stable  wise,  too.  Turned 
loose  in  the  morning,  he  could  find  his  wray 
[29] 


JUST   HORSES 

down  the  whole  length  of  the  building  to 
the  drinking  trough  and  return  without 
making  a  single  false  step.  At  night  he 
would  walk  from  the  pole  straight  to  his 
own  stall,  picking  it  out  from  near  the  cen 
ter  of  a  row  of  fifteen  others  exactly 
like  it. 

'  To  see  him  find  his  way  around  you'd 
never  guess  he  had  two  blue  ones,"  was 
the  way  in  which  the  stable  boss  expressed 
his  appreciation. 

Yet  all  this  necessity  for  constant  alert 
ness  was  a  strain  on  the  nerves  of  Jerry. 
It  wore  sadly  on  his  energy  and  spirits. 
He  became  fretful  and  nervous.  In  spite 
of  generous  feeding  he  lost  flesh  and 
failed  in  muscle. 

As  for  Mr.  P.  Dolan,  the  early  sharp 
ness  of  his  grief  had  become  dulled.  The 
sightless  eyes  of  Jerry  no  longer  troubled 
him  greatly.  And  he  had  his  dream  of 
[30] 


JERRY 

wealth  to  occupy  his  mind.  Four  double 
trucks  carried  the  name  of  P.  Dolan  now, 
and  he  had  given  up  the  actual  work  of 
driving. 

The  new  man  put  in  charge  of  Jerry's 
team  was  a  driver  who  had  small  sympathy 
for  a  horse  that  could  not  see.  So  those 
were  sad  days  for  Jerry.  It  was  hard 
enough  to  go  stumbling  about  the  streets 
as  one  traveling  in  the  dark,  to  wonder 
vaguely  what  all  the  noises  meant,  without 
the  added  hardship  of  having  to  depend 
upon  a  heedless  driver  who  would  allow 
you  to  step  into  a  hole  and  then  lash  you 
for  it.  No  more  ribbons  were  braided  into 
Jerry's  mane  and  forelock.  No  kindly 
pats  or  soft  words  did  he  get.  There  were 
only  harsh  oaths,  hard  work,  rough  hand 
ling  and  a  cuff  or  a  kick  at  the  end  of  the 
day.  The  new  driver  hated  him  thor 
oughly,  and  said  so. 

[31] 


JUST   HORSES 

It  ended  in  Jerry's  being  sold.  He  was 
turned  out  of  the  old  stable  where  he  had 
lived  so  long  and  where  alone  he  knew  his 
way  about,  he  was  barred  from  the  old 
stall  which  had  become  so  familiar,  he  was 
cast  adrift  among  strange  owners  who 
knew  little  or  nothing  of  the  ways  of  blind 
horses. 

What  use  to  follow  him  through  buffets 
and  misfortunes?  The  recital  would  be 
drear  and  unprofitable.  Let  us  look  only 
to  the  end  to  which  he  came.  That,  at 
least,  was  not  commonplace. 

•  •••••• 

Out  towards  the  head  of  a  North  River 
pier,  picking  his  way  through  a  lane  be 
tween  bales  and  barrels,  came  a  broad- 
shouldered  man,  whose  every  movement 
was  aggressive  of  prosperity  and  success. 
He  W7ore  a  cream  white  Melton  driving 
coat  resplendent  with  a  double  row  of 
[32] 


JERRY, 

huge  pearl  buttons.  He  smoked  a  fat 
black  cigar.  One  of  his  stubby  fingers  was 
burdened  by  a  three-karat  diamond.  The 
red  and  white  stripes  of  his  shirt  front  and 
cuffs  were  half  an  inch  wide. 

This  was  Mr.  P.  Dolan,  whose  trucks 
might  be  seen  in  any  part  of  the  city.  He 
had  come  out  on  the  pier  to  make  an  esti 
mate  on  the  cost  of  moving  a  small  moun 
tain  of  mixed  freight. 

At  the  utmost  edge  of  the  pier,  crouch 
ing  on  hands  and  knees  as  if  he  meant 
to  throw  himself  over,  was  the  ragged  fig 
ure  of  an  old  man,  a  greasy  old  man,  with 
long,  unkempt  beard. 

"  Come  out  o'  that,  ye  old  fool,"  roared 
Mr.  P.  Dolan,  imperiously.  "Don't  ye 
jump! " 

The  old  man  took  no  notice.  He  rocked 
back  and  forth  and  moaned  something  in 
whining  monotone.  Evidently  his  folly 
[33] 


JUST    HORSES 

was  not  self-destruction.  A  lounging 
'longshoreman  enlightened  Mr.  P.  Dolan. 

'''  The  old  Ginney  lost  his  horse,  that's 
all;  a  blind  old  skate  that  used  to  pull  his 
pedlar's  cart  for  him." 

"  Blind,  was  he,"  asked  Mr.  P.  Dolan. 
"What  color?" 

"  Red,  sor;  red  an'  black." 

'  With  a  white  stocking  on  the  off  hind 
leg?" 

"  I  belave  he  had,  sor,  an'  he  called  him 
Jerry.  The  old  skate  got  loose  from  the 
stable  up  the  street  and  jumped  off'n  the 
dock  jess  a-purpose.  Must  'ave  done  it  on 
purpose,  fer  he  walked  clean  out  to  the 
string  piece,  stopped  a  minnit ,  an'  then 
jumped.  I  seen  him.  Guess  he  got  tired 
of  bein'  blind  an'  wrorkin'  fer  a  Ginney." 

Mr.  P.  Dolan  flushed  guiltily.  Then  he 
walked  out  to  the  pier  head  and  stopped 
beside  the  moaning,  crouching  figure.  To- 
[34] 


JERRY 

gether  they  stared  down  into  the  black 
water  that  swirled  and  sucked  about  the 
spiles. 

"  Old  Jerry,  eh?  "  he  muttered.  "  It's 
too  cussed  bad!  He  and  I  started  the 
business  together,  an'  now  he's — well,  he's 
done  for.  I  wish — I — wish 

Whatever  it  was  that  Mr.  P.  Dolan 
wished,  he  did  not  express  it.  He  broke 
off  abruptly,  fished  a  roll  of  money  from 
his  pocket,  peeled  off  a  yellow-backed 
bank  note  and  thrust  it  into  the  crooked 
fingers  of  the  amazed  old  pedlar.  Then 
he  turned  quickly,  and,  with  his  square 
chin  sunk  on  his  red  and  white  striped  shirt 
bosom,  walked  away. 


[35] 


KENO: 

A  CAYUSE   KNOWN  TO  FAME 


KENO: 

A   CAYUSE   KNOWN   TO   FAME 

FROM  the  very  beginning  the  fates 
seemed  to  have  marked  Keno  for  the 
unusual.  The  first  real  crisis  in  his  career 
turned  on  the  character  and  complexion  of 
two  cards  which  Arkansas  Pete  skinned 
quite  ostentatiously  from  the  top  of  the 
pack  and  slid  across  a  barrel-head  to  the 
expectant  fingers  of  Sokalee  Smith. 

Had  either  one  of  those  cards  been  the 
queen  of  clubs  this  record  might  have  been 
far  different;  in  fact,  might  never  have 
seen  the  light.  But  neither  was.  A  measly 
little  trey  of  hearts  was  one,  the  other  an 
utterly  futile  ace  of  spades.  Yet  Sokalee 
Smith,  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  in- 
[39] 


JUST    HORSES 

tended  to  deceive,  slipped  them  both  into 
the  royal  company  of  the  three  queens 
which  had  come  in  the  deal  and  bet  his 
hand  just  as  if  it  contained  the  coveted 
quartette.  Something  told  him  that 
Arkansas  Pete  was  backing  two  pairs.  In 
stinct,  you  know,  is  a  poor  mentor  when 
the  game  is  draw  and  the  cards  are  run 
ning  against  you.  It  was  in  this  case.  But 
Sokalee  Smith  had  lost  seven  dollars  sil 
ver,  he  had  lost  his  rifle,  he  had  lost  his 
fringed  buckskin  shirt,  he  had  lost  his  em 
broidered  moccasins.  Now  Arkansas  Pete 
had  signified  his  willingness  to  bet  the 
whole  outfit  against  Sokalee's  sole  remain 
ing  possession,  which  was  Keno,  the  pinto- 
marked  hunting  pony  tied  to  the  horse-rail 
over  in  front  of  the  Agency  office. 

Sokalee  looked  out  through  the  dingy 
windows  of  the  Palace  Hotel  and  scowled. 
Then  he  looked  longingly  at  his  lost  prop- 
[40] 


KENO 

erty,  all  piled  carelessly  on  the  floor  by  the 
gun-hand  side  of  Arkansas  Pete.  His 
gaze  also  included  the  neat  little  pile  of  sil 
ver  dollars  on  Pete's  side  of  the  barrel 
head,  and — well,  Sokalee  put  his  trust  in 
that  incomplete  quartette,  whereupon 
Keno,  his  pinto  hunting  pony,  was  to  him 
irretrievably,  irrevocably  lost. 

You  may,  lacking  judgment,  credit  a 
Crow  Indian  with  as  many  fine  feelings 
and  tender  sentiments  as  you  please. 
There's  no  law  against  it,  east  of  the  Big 
Muddy.  But  even  a  Beacon  Hill  humani 
tarian  should  know  that  a  mixed-blood, 
such  as  Sokalee  Smith,  made  up  of  three- 
quarters  laziness  to  one-quarter  vice,  has 
within  him  no  room  for  other  traits.  Still, 
something  very  like  remorse  troubled 
Sokalee  Smith  during  his  sober  moments 
for  days  afterward. 

As  for  Keno,  if  he  did  not  welcome  the 
[41] 


JUST    HORSES 

change  of  owners,  he  was  utterly  indiffer 
ent.  True,  he  owed  to  Sokalee  his  train 
ing.  That  was  no  slight  thing,  either ;  for, 
in  a  country  of  horsemen  born  and  bred 
to  the  business,  there  was  none  better  than 
this  same  Sokalee  Smith.  It  was  the  one 
useful  thing  he  could  do  well.  So,  when 
at  the  age  of  two,  the  scraggly,  long- 
legged,  unpromising  pinto  cayuse  came 
into  the  possession  of  Sokalee,  there  was 
begun  for  the  colt  the  most  thorough 
course  in  horse  education  that  a  Crow  can 
give. 

Hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  month 
after  month,  Keno  was  manoeuvred  over 
the  Reservation  until  he  reached  that  acme 
of  wisdom  at  which  he  understood,  merely 
from  the  pressure  of  the  rider's  knees  on 
his  withers,  when  to  break  into  a  gallop, 
which  way  to  swerve  and  when  to  come  to 
a  full  stop.  Mere  bridle  wisdom  he  de- 
[42] 


KENO 

spised.  With  not  even  a  rawhide  throat- 
strap  and  no  sign  of  bridle  or  girth,  he 
would  tear  through  the  Reservation  vil 
lage  at  top  speed;  on  his  back,  Sokalee 
sitting  in  all  sorts  of  reckless  attitudes, 
wasting  good  cartridges  on  the  empty  air, 
and  between  salvos  proclaiming  in  maud 
lin  tones  his  utter  wickedness  and  un 
matched  courage. 

It  is  no  nice  thing  to  say  of  him,  but 
Keno  liked  it  all.  So  far  as  he  could,  lack 
ing  the  savage  dare-deviltry  and  the  alco 
holic  inspiration,  the  scraggly  cayuse  en 
tered  into  the  spirit  of  these  unholy  revels. 
With  neck  stretched  out,  ears  flattened, 
nostrils  belled,  he  would  of  his  own  accord 
put  every  ounce  of  muscle,  lavish  all  his 
energy,  on  one  of  these  spectacular  dashes, 
at  which  the  startled  squaws  looked 
askance  and  with  mutterings  as  they  scut 
tled  for  safety. 

[43] 


JUST   HORSES 

The  long  hunting  trips  up  among  the 
buttes,  after  red  deer  and  antelope,  Keno 
liked  well,  too.  He  had  no  fault  to  find 
with  the  hard  rides  to  and  from  the 
Agency,  when  he  sometimes  carried  his 
hulking  master  as  many  as  seventy  miles 
in  a  single  day.  It  was  better  than  being  a 
squaw  horse,  dragging  a  lot  of  laden  poles 
about. 

And  for  service  such  as  this  Keno  got 
no  other  recompense  than  the  privilege  of 
finding  his  own  fodder.  In  summer  this 
was  not  difficult,  for  the  buffalo  grass 
grew  rich  and  juicy  in  the  swales.  In  win 
ter,  of  course,  one  never  did  get  enough. 
One  must  paw  and  nose  away  the  snow  to 
crop  the  hardy  bunch  grass  underneath. 
If  the  snow  was  deep,  one  took  food  and 
drink  at  the  same  time.  For  want  of  any 
thing  else,  one  could  always  browse  cot- 
tonwood  twigs.  Keno  had  made  many  a 


KENO 

meal  on  them.  It  was  not  a  sustaining 
diet,  and  it  puckered  the  mouth,  but  it  was 
far  better  than  nothing. 

Of  currying  and  stabling  Keno  had  ab 
solutely  no  knowledge.  He  slept  in  the 
open,  wherever  he  was  picketed.  In  bliz 
zard  weather  Indian  ponies  learn  to  forget 
all  enmities  and  make  common  cause  by 
crowding  into  a  close  bunch,  head  to  head, 
until  the  Norther  has  passed.  To  be  sure, 
you  are  terribly  cold  and  often  most  wo- 
fully  empty  before  it  is  safe  to  stir  about. 
But  what  else  is  to  be  done?  One  winter 
of  this  sort,  of  course,  would  finish  a  sta 
ble-bred  horse.  Keno,  while  he  did  not 
grow  fat  on  it,  developed  into  a  well-mus 
cled  little  beast,  sound  of  wind,  with  well- 
sloped  shoulders,  finely  arched  ribs,  but 
otherwise  as  disreputable  to  look  at  as  one 
could  imagine.  For  one  thing,  his  pinto 
markings,  small  oval  splotches  of  reddish- 
[45] 


JUST   HORSES 

brown  on  a  white  background,  did  not 
make  a  color  pleasing  to  the  eye.  A  white 
jaw  blaze  that  straggled  down  one  side  of 
his  throat  was  no  beauty  mark. 

But  Arkansas  Pete  was  no  connoisseur 
of  horse  coats.  He  had  heard  that  Soka- 
lee  Smith  owned  the  fastest  cayuse  on  the 
Reservation,  and,  in  his  sinful  way,  he  was 
glad  the  pony  was  now  his.  No  time  did 
he  lose  in  taking  possession  of  his  new 
mount.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  after 
Sokalee  had  made  that  fruitless  two-card 
draw,  Keno,  a  heavy  Mexican  saddle  on 
his  back,  and  Arkansas  Pete's  one  hun 
dred  and  eighty  pounds  on  top  of  that, 
was  loping  south  at  his  best  gait,  his  colt 
days  behind  him  and  all  his  surprising  fu 
ture  ahead. 

Without  dwelling  on  the  details  of  the 
ensuing  months,  it  may  be  mentioned  that 
Keno  found  them  varied  and  full  of  di- 
[46] 


KENO 

verse  activities.  Also  he  knew  numerous 
owners,  for  the  luck  of  Arkansas  Pete  did 
not  abide.  Keno's  next  engagement  was 
on  the  X  bar  C  ranch.  There  he  learned 
the  use  of  the  noosed  rope,  the  ways  of 
cow-punchers  and  the  vagaries  of  herded 
long-horns.  There,  for  the  first  and  only 
period  of  his  life,  Keno  was  a  useful  mem 
ber  of  society. 

But  his  very  proficiency  as  a  cow-pony 
brought  a  change  of  condition  that  landed 
Keno,  with  some  dozen  other  short  horses, 
on  a  big  ranch  down  in  the  Panhandle 
country. 

Here  began  a  new  and  curious  exist 
ence.  For  many  days  Keno  could  not  fig 
ure  it  out  at  all.  There  were  no  steers  to 
rope,  no  work  to  be  done.  Yet  every  morn 
ing  he  was  saddled  and  ridden  out  on  a 
smooth  field  with  a  lot  of  other  ponies.  At 
first  they  did  nothing  but  canter  aimlessly 
[47] 


JUST   HORSES 

about,  sometimes  in  circling  squads,  again 
scattering  to  different  quarters  only  to  be 
whirled  suddenly  and  rushed  together  in 
one  confused  clump. 

Next  the  riders  brought  out  long-han 
dled  mallets  and  began  to  knock  a  small 
wooden  ball  about.  It  seemed  very  silly  to 
Keno.  Why  couldn't  they  get  up  a  race  ? 
After  three  or  four  days  of  this  nonsense 
the  ponies  were  one  morning  lined  up  in 
two  squads  before  some  tall  poles  at  oppo 
site  ends  of  the  field.  A  bell  wras  rung  and 
someone  tossed  out  a  ball.  There  was  a 
grand  rush.  Keno  found  himself  in  the 
van.  Just  as  they  were  about  to  meet  the 
opposing  squad,  Keno  felt  his  rider  swing 
in  the  saddle  and  strike  the  ball.  After  the 
bounding  sphere  he  was  urged,  slam 
through  the  ruck  of  pivoting,  snorting, 
shying  ponies. 

At  last  Keno  knew  what  it  was  all 
[48] 


KENO 

about.  The  ball  was,  as  you  might  put  it, 
a  steer  to  be  cut  out.  Your  business  was 
to  follow  it  so  that  your  rider  could  whack 
it  with  his  stick.  Good !  There  was  some 
thing  in  that.  Keno  began  to  watch  the 
ball.  In  a  few  days  he  understood  that 
the  scheme  was  to  drive  the  ball  between 
those  opposite  posts  and  to  keep  the  other 
riders  from  driving  it  back. 

Certainly  it  was  novel  work.  There  was 
fun  in  it,  too.  Of  course,  the  sticks  some 
times  rapped  your  shins,  but  you  didn't 
mind  that  wiien  once  you  were  interested 
in  the  game.  Nor  did  you  mind  the  crowd 
ing  and  jostling  after  you  got  used  to  it. 
One  learned  to  turn  almost  in  one's  tracks 
at  the  slightest  tug  on  the  bits,  to  dash  off 
at  top  speed  when  you  were  given  free  rein, 
and  to  swerve  to  right  or  left  with  the 
swaying  of  your  rider's  body. 

Very  quickly  did  Keno  pick  up  knowl- 
[49] 


JUST   HORSES 

edge  of  these  things,  partly  because  of  the 
early  training  he  had  received  from  Soka- 
lee  Smith,  partly  because  of  his  experience 
as  a  cutting-out  pony.  It  was  not  so  with 
all  the  horses,  however.  Some  of  them 
stubbornly  refused  to  be  forced  into  a 
skirmish,  some  never  seemed  to  under 
stand  the  importance  of  following  the 
ball. 

Reward  for  Keno's  aptitude  came  one 
April  day  when,  with  his  shaggy  coat 
clipped  until  you  could  see  every  ridged 
muscle  of  his  lithe  legs,  his  tail  banged  to  a 
scant  fourteen  inches,  and  his  mane  and 
forelock  hogged  to  most  artistic  brevity, 
he  was  led  into  San  Antonio  and  shipped 
North  in  a  palace  stock-car  with  others  of 
his  kind,  to  fill  a  rush  order  from  Myopia 
and  Meadowbrook  clubmen.  For  Keno, 
the  shaggy  cayuse  that  Sokalee  Smith  had 
put  up  to  back  his  faith  in  three  queens, 
[50] 


KENO 

was  now  become  one  of  those  sporty 
equine  aristocrats,  a  polo  pony. 

When  he  was  taken  out  for  his  first  big 
game,  no  one  who  had  known  Keno  as  an 
Indian  cayuse,  or  as  a  cow-pony,  would 
have  recognized  him,  unless  by  the  pecu 
liar  throat  blaze  or  the  pinto  markings. 
Keno  hardly  knew  himself.  On  his  fore 
legs  were  elastic  knee  boots,  on  his  back 
was  a  light-weight  English  saddle,  and 
thrown  over  his  shoulders,  a  gaudy  field 
blanket  with  monograms  in  the  corners. 

With  high  disdain  Keno  regarded  his 
new  master.  That  slim-legged,  smooth 
faced,  dandified  chap  ride  ?  Keno  guessed 
not.  It  would  take  about  three  jumps  to 
send  that  fellow  flying.  Keno  was  used  to 
a  full-grown  man  rider,  he  was;  a  man 
with  whiskers  on  his  face,  a  red  bandanna 
knotted  about  his  throat,  and  sheepskin 
chaps  on  his  legs.  Look  at  those  yellow 
[51] 


JUST   HORSES 

boots,  and  those  tight  trousers,  and  that 
French  flannel  shirt!  That  fellow  play 
polo?  Keno  snorted  derisively. 

Pricking  his  ears  forward  at  every  new 
sight  and  sound,  Keno  stood  dazed  and 
bewildered.  Suddenly,  from  the  far-end 
of  the  field,  came  a  crash  of  music  that  set 
him  dancing  at  such  a  rate  that  the  groom 
who  held  his  bridle  called  for  help.  It  was 
Keno's  first  introduction  to  a  band,  and  it 
moved  him  to  action. 

When  the  music  stopped,  a  bugle  was 
blown  and  two  sets  of  ponies  were  ridden 
prancingly  into  the  field.  The  united  ef 
forts  of  three  stable-boys  kept  Keno  from 
jumping  that  whitewashed  boundary.  He 
saw  the  goal  flags  snapping,  he  saw  the 
sticks,  he  watched  the  line-up,  and  he  knew 
what  was  coming.  He  wanted  to  be  in  it. 
They  had  another  seance  with  him  when 
the  gong  was  rung,  and  the  ball  was  put 
in  play.  [  52  ] 


KENO 

"  Hi  say,  Ennery,  'e  knows  the  gyme, 
orl  right,"  commented  a  groom  who  had 
watched  Keno's  antics. 

'  Too  bloomiii'  well,"  answered  the  per 
spiring  stable-boy  at  Keno's  head. 

An  age  it  seemed,  but  at  last  Keno's 
turn  came.  Sliding  from  a  knee-barked, 
lathered,  wind-blown  mount,  the  slim- 
legged  man  jerked  a  thumb  toward  the 
pinto  pony. 

"I'll  try  the  green  one  next  period. 
Have  him  ready." 

Barely  had  the  new  master  touched  the 
pigskin  before  Keno  began  to  jump  stiff- 
legged.  The  man  was  still  in  the  saddle 
after  the  third  jump,  so  Keno  concluded 
that  he  could  ride.  Inside  of  five  minutes 
Keno  had  decided  that  his  new  master 
could  play  polo.  And  such  playing !  Keno 
would  not  have  believed  the  fellow  had  it 
in  him.  Back-hand  strokes  on  the  off  or 
[53] 


JUST,   HORSES 

near  side,  dribbling  on  the  jump;  clean, 
fair  smashes  for  goal;  close,  hot  work  in 
scrimmage — why,  the  man  played  like  a 
fiend.  No  cow-puncher  down  on  the 
Texas  ranch  could  handle  a  mallet  like 
that,  no,  sir!  Nor  could  one  of  them  hit  a 
ball  so  far  or  so  true. 

Keno  found  himself  straining  every 
nerve  to  know  and  do  the  will  of  his  new 
master.  Never  before  had  he  handled  his 
legs  so  neatly,  never  had  he  shown  such 
bursts  of  speed.  There  was  one  long  run 
down  the  boards,  with  the  whole  field  tear 
ing  behind,  that  fairly  set  Keno  wild,  and 
when  his  rider,  with  a  quick  forehand 
drive,  sent  the  ball  flying  between  the 
posts,  Keno  knew  that  he  had  found  a 
worthy  master. 

And  at  the  finish  of  the  game,  as  Keno 
watched  him  stride  off  to  the  tea-house  to 
be  congratulated  on  winning  six  straight 
[54] 


THE    MAN    PLAYED    LIKE   A    FIEND 


KENO 

goals,  he  was  prouder  of  him  than  he  had 
been  of  Sokalee  Smith  when  Sokalee 
"  shot  up  "  the  Agency,  even  prouder  than 
he  had  been  when  he  helped  "  Buck  "  Mas 
ters  wrin  a  steer-roping  match  down  at  the 
Albuquerque  fair. 

Also,  Keno  was  proud  of  himself.  Did 
a  cow-pony  ever  fall  into  such  luck  be 
fore?  Why,  he  was  overwhelmed  with 
luxuries  and  attentions.  How  good  it  was 
to  be  washed  and  scraped  and  rubbed  and 
polished  after  a  hard- fought  game.  How 
thoroughly  comfortable  one  felt,  covered 
with  warm  blankets  and  standing  in  a 
light,  roomy  box-stall,  carpeted  with  clean 
straw.  Rich  clover  hay,  a  whole  measure 
of  oats,  and  a  bucket  of  clear  water — it 
was  fare  fit  for  a  king  of  horses !  There 
was  even  a  piece  of  rock-salt  in  his  feed- 
box.  It  all  seemed  too  good  to  be  true. 
Surely,  it  could  not  last. 
[55] 


JUST    HORSES 

But  last  it  did;  not  months  merely,  but 
years.  And  in  those  years  Keno  learned 
the  game  of  polo,  learned  all  its  ins  and 
outs,  its  tricks  of  skill,  its  feats  of  daring ; 
learned  it  as  few  ponies,  before  or  since, 
have  done.  For  was  not  his  master  the 
crack  No.  2  man  of  America's  best  team, 
and  was  not  Keno  the  pick  of  his  master's 
stables?  Was  it  not  Keno  who  was  care 
fully  rounded  into  form  for  the  big 
tournaments,  and  was  he  not  saved  for  the 
critical  periods?  Did  he  not  have  a  hand 
in  winning  nearly  a  score  of  cups?  And 
last,  was  not  Keno  one  of  the  select  few 
taken  clear  across  the  ocean  to  try  for  a 
Hurlingham  trophy  against  the  flower  of 
all  England?  To  be  sure,  they  did  not 
get  the  cup,  but  they  did  compel  the  re 
spect  of  the  Britishers,  and  Keno  had  the 
personal  satisfaction  of  beating  out,  in  a 
run  for  the  ball,  a  half-blood  Arab  mare 
[56] 


KENO 

that  had  fetched  two  hundred  guineas  on 
the  block  at  Tattersalls! 

In  the  ordinary  course  of  events  Keno 
would  have  rusted  out,  gone  stale,  or  bro 
ken  a  leg-bone  in  stopping  a  hard-swung 
mallet.  But  it  was  the  extraordinary 
which  the  Fates  seemed  to  have  allotted  to 
Keno.  Thus  it  happened  that,  at  the  very 
climax  of  his  polo  career,  Keno  left  the 
turfed  arena  for  the  public  boards. 

It  all  came  about  as  the  result  of  an  im 
promptu  reception  given  to  Keno  at  the 
end  of  a  big  game  in  which  he  had  distin 
guished  himself.  Some  two  dozen  elab 
orately  dressed  ladies  patted  various  parts 
of  Keno's  shining  coat  and  asked  each 
other  unanimously:  "Isn't  he  a  dear?" 
One  of  the  ladies,  who  wore  a  striking 
green  and  white  gown,  and  who  talked  in 
soft,  gurgling,  musical  tones,  went  still 
farther.  She  rubbed  her  cheek  against 
[57] 


JUST   HORSES 

Keno's  blazed  nose,  smoothed  his  ears, 
looked  into  his  big,  keen  eyes,  and  declared 
him  to  be  the  most  intelligent  horse  she 
had  ever  seen. 

"  He  looks  just  as  though  he  could 
talk  if  he  wanted  to,"  she  gurgled.  "  Oh, 
if  only  I  had  such  a  horse  for  my  new 
piece;  there's  to  be  a  horse  in  it,  you 
know." 

"  Allow  me  to  present  Keno,"  said  the 
pinto's  gallant  owner. 

"  Oh,  really,  I  couldn't  think " 

"  I  shall  feel  hurt  if  you  don't  accept." 

Thus  it  was  settled.    No  more  did  Keno 

follow  the  flying  ball.     Instead,  he  was 

taken  off  to  a  city  boarding-stable  where 

he  remained  in  fretful  idleness  until  the 

rehearsals  began.    Then,  in  a  curious,  big, 

barnlike  place,  from  which  one  looked  out 

on  an   immense   sweep   of   cloth-draped 

seats,  Keno  was  drilled  for  his  part. 

[58] 


KENO 

It  was  not  much  that  he  had  to  do.  All 
that  was  expected  of  him  was  to  stand 
around  while  a  lot  of  folks  talked  until,  at 
the  proper  moment,  the  gurgling-voiced 
lady  made  a  rush  for  him,  climbed  more  or 
less  gracefully  on  his  back  and  exclaimed : 
"  Now  to  the  rescue !  "  Then  Keno  would 
dash  some  forty  feet  across  the  stage,  run 
up  a  twenty- foot  incline,  turn  sharply 
around  the  corner  of  a  canvas  mountain 
peak — and  it  was  all  over. 

Keno  regarded  it  as  the  most  absurd 
performance  in  which  he  had  ever  figured. 
After  the  opening  night,  however,  Keno 
was  somewhat  better  satisfied.  When  he 
was  allowed  to  walk  out  on  the  stage  he 
was  surprised  to  find  the  great  building, 
which  he  had  always  seen  dark  and  empty, 
ablaze  with  light  and  crowded  to  the  doors. 
There  was  music,  too.  Keno  heard  a  hum 
of  surprise  and  admiration  as  he  showed 
[59] 


JUST    HORSES 

himself.  And  when  his  mistress,  with  her 
"  Now  to  the  rescue!  "  flung  herself  into 
the  saddle  and  he  made  his  brief  run  up 
the  incline  there  broke  loose  such  a  storm 
of  applause  that  Keno  wondered  what 
could  have  happened. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  understood 
that  the  noise  was  all  in  his  honor.  He 
came  to  look  forward  to  the  moment 
when,  by  merely  appearing  from  behind 
the  wings,  he  could  rouse  that  appreciative 
hum,  and  the  thrill  which  he  felt  when  he 
heard  the  storm  of  applause  rising  from 
the  galleries,  was  something  very  fine,  in 
deed.  As  for  petting  and  coddling,  Keno 
never  dreamed  that  a  pony  could  get  so 
much  of  it.  In  the  boarding-stable  he  was 
a  privileged  character,  a  personage. 

"  That's  Miss  Allstar's  pony,"  the  sta 
blemen  would  say  to  visitors.  Yes,  he's 
the  one  she  uses  in  the  show.  Seen  him  do 
[60] 


KENO 

his  act  ?  Clever  little  beast  he  is,  and  know 
ing — say,  there  ain't  a  thing  that  little 
devil  don't  know." 

The  stage  folks,  from  the  soubrette  to 
the  first  old  lady,  rendered  to  Keno  un 
ceasing  homage.  They  brought  him  ap 
ples  and  peanuts  and  high-priced  confec 
tionery.  They  even  offered  him  bunches 
of  cut  roses  to  browse.  He  came  to  have  a 
nice  discrimination  in  the  quality  of  choco 
late  bonbons  and  fruits  glace.  His  bits 
were  of  solid  silver.  He  wore  a  silken 
girth  strap.  Fresh  ribbon  rosettes  dan 
gled  under  each  ear. 

Little  by  little  the  fame  of  Keno  spread 
abroad.  His  name  figured  in  the  cast  of 
characters.  His  photograph  was  dis 
played  in  the  lobby.  The  manager  had 
made  for  him  a  three-sheet  poster.  Per 
haps  this  appealed  strongest  to  Keno. 
Miss  Allstar  had  one  pasted  in  his  box- 
[61] 


JUST    HORSES 

stall,  where  he  could  see,  at  any  time  of 
day,  the  flattering  presentment  of  him 
self.  She  declared  that  Keno  would  gaze 
admiringly  at  it  for  hours  on  end. 

'  But  I  know  how  it  is,"  she  confessed. 
"  I  did  the  same  with  the  first  lithograph 
of  myself ;  and  a  most  wretched  wood-cut 
it  was,  too." 

Did  the  vanity  of  Keno  grow  with  his 
fame?  They  say  it  did.  Miss  Allstar  is 
most  positive,  and  she  knew  him  best.  He 
was  no  longer  content  to  await  his  cue  half 
hidden  in  the  wings.  Gradually  he  would 
edge  toward  the  centre  of  the  stage.  You 
could  see  him  prick  forward  his  ears,  as  if 
to  listen  for  that  murmur  of  appreciation 
which  he  knew  was  his  due.  When  the 
house  was  light  and  the  applause  thin,  he 
would  sulk  for  hours  afterward;  but  a 
holiday  audience,  with  its  big  crowd  of 
noisy  children,  put  him  in  angelic  humor. 
[62] 


KENO 

Perhaps  the  high  tide  of  his  glory  came 
when,  at  a  reception  given  in  his  honor  at 
Miss  Allstar's  city  home,  he  was  presented 
to  all  the  great  personages  of  the  stage. 
It  was  Keno's  first  appearance  in  a  draw 
ing  room,  but  you  would  never  have 
guessed  it.  He  behaved  as  if  he  had  at 
tended  afternoon  teas  all  his  life.  Soka- 
lee  Smith  would  have  stared  his  eyes  out 
could  he  have  seen  his  pinto  cayuse  in  that 
company.  Under  a  bower  of  roses  and 
smilax  stood  Keno,  with  a  Daghestan  rug 
under  his  hoofs.  Occasionally  he  nibbled 
at  a  huge  bunch  of  sweet  clover  set  in  a 
Satsuma  vase.  Considering  that  it  was 
mid-winter,  the  clover  represented  more 
or  less  luxury.  Miss  Allstar  had  sent  to 
Florida  for  it. 

But  Keno  betrayed  no  ill-bred  astonish 
ment  at  anything,  taking  it  all  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course.  With  polite  condescension 
[63] 


JUST,   HORSES 

he  allowed  a  managerial  autocrat  to  feed 
him  sugar  plums,  and  for  a  prima  donna 
he  drank  Russian  tea  from  a  Haviland 
cup.  To  be  sure,  he  frightened  a  Swiss 
maid  almost  into  convulsions  by  chewing 
one  of  her  apron  strings,  and  he  disturbed 
the  haughty  dignity  of  the  English  butler 
by  sniffing  the  white-stockinged  calves  of 
that  sedate  individual.  Otherwise,  Keno 
acted  very  much  as  matinee  idols  usually 
do  on  such  occasions,  and  trotted  back  to 
his  stable,  after  it  was  all  over,  with  high 
held  head. 

Could  this  pampered,  blase,  finicky 
pony  be  Keno,  the  Indian  cayuse,  that  had 
roamed  the  Reservation,  that  had  worked 
with  the  X  bar  C  outfit,  that  had  taken 
delight  in  the  wild  scrimmages  of  the  polo 
field?  No  one  would  have  guessed  as 
much. 

But  the  higher  one  climbs,  you  know, 
[64] 


KENO 

the  greater  one's  pride,  the  more  disas 
trous  the  fall.  With  the  end  of  January 
it  was  concluded  that  Miss  Allstar's 
piece  had  about  finished  its  Broadway 
run.  Rehearsals  for  a  new  one  were 
started. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  pouted  Miss  Allstar,  when 
she  had  finished  reading  her  new  lines, 
"  you  haven't  made  a  part  for  my  darling 
Keno." 

The  great  playwright  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  scowled. 

"  Couldn't  you  write  him  in  some 
where?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  No,  madam,  I  could  not,"  snapped 
the  G.  P.  wrathfully.  "  I'm  not  con 
structing  a  zoo." 

Then  Miss  Allstar  wept.    She  indulged 
in  tragedy  business.    She  appealed  to  the 
manager,  threatened  to  throw  up  her  part, 
to  break  her  contract. 
L65] 


JUST   HORSES 

"  It  is  a  shame;  but  just  think  of  the 
gorgeous  gowns  you  are  to  wear.  It's 
going  to  cost  me  a  fortune  to  dress  your 
part,"  suggested  the  manager.  He  was  a 
diplomat,  of  course.  If  he  hadn't  been 
he  would  have  been  in  other  business. 

Miss  Allstar  did  think  of  the  gorgeous 
gowns.  And  she  forgot  the  slight  to 
Keno.  So,  when  the  old  piece  was  finally 
taken  off  and  the  new  one  put  on,  Keno 
was  sent  from  the  expensive  city  stable  to 
Miss  Allstar's  country  house,  where  he 
had  for  human  company  an  Irish  stable 
man  who  held  in  contempt  all  things 
theatrical,  and  a  Cockney  groom  who 
drank  gin. 

Why  he  should  be  thus  banished,  Keno 
could  not  at  all  comprehend.  Never  in 
all  his  varied  career  had  he  known  such 
isolated  monotony.  One  day  was  exactly 
like  another,  and  each  was  an  age  long. 
[66] 


KENO 

The  only  break  came  in  the  forenoon, 
when  he  was  trotted  up  and  down  the  road 
by  the  Cockney  groom  for  a  half-hour's 
exercise.  The  rest  of  the  day  was  spent 
in  stall-standing,  wearily  looking  out  of  a 
little  grated  window,  waiting,  waiting, 
waiting — for  what? 

During  the  first  week  or  two  Keno  kept 
hoping  that  it  was  merely  a  temporary 
rest.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  he  would  be 
sent  for.  Then  he  would  know  again  the 
hum  of  the  theatre,  sniff  the  excitement  of 
the  play,  hear  once  more  the  thunders  of 
applause.  But  week  after  week  dragged 
on  and  no  such  summons  came.  Keno  had 
left  the  public  boards  forever.  He  had 
been  put  on  the  shelf.  Already  his  name 
was  forgotten. 

Keno  began  to  refuse  the  oats  and  hay 
which  were  put  in  his  crib.  His  ribs  began 
to  show  through  his  once  nicely  rounded 
[67] 


JUST    HORSES 

barrel.  His  quarters  lost  their  plumpness. 
If  you  had  watched  him,  as  he  stood  there, 
alone,  in  the  still,  empty  stable,  you  might 
have  seen  great  salty  drops  slip  from  the 
corners  of  his  big,  sad,  intelligent  eyes. 
Was  it  grief,  or  was  it  only  a  touch  of  in 
fluenza  ? 

One  night  in  April,  when  the  end  of  the 
show-season  was  in  sight,  a  telegram  was 
brought  to  Miss  Allstar  in  her  dressing- 
room.  It  was  signed,  "  Murphy,"  and 
read:  "  Your  pony  bad  off.  Shall  I  get 
horse-doctor? " 

With  the  best  veterinary  surgeon  to  be 
found  in  the  city  Miss  Allstar  hurried  to 
the  stall  where  Keno,  a  sorry  shadow  of 
his  former  self,  lay  with  drooping  head 
and  a  look  of  mournful  reproach  in  his 
dull  eyes.  The  learned  V.  S.  used  all  his 
skill.  He  hoisted  the  limp,  wasted  form 
in  slings,  he  forced  hot  mixtures  down 
[68] 


,  KENO 

Keno's  throat,  he  wound  bandages  and 
applied  poultices. 

But  he  had  come  too  late.  All  his  work 
was  in  vain.  With  that  reproachful  look 
still  in  his  big  eyes,  the  vital  spark  that  had 
once  burned  so  brightly  in  the  noble  little 
pony,  flickered  feebly  for  a  time,  and  then 
went  out. 

"  Mighty  curious,  too,"  said  the  puzzled 
veterinary.  ;'  Wasn't  anything  particu 
lar  ailing  with  him,  that  I  could  see;  he 
just  didn't  seem  to  have  any  spirit  left." 

Miss  Allstar  was  sobbing  into  the  folds 
of  a  horse  blanket.  "  It — it's  (sniff)  a-all 
(snuffle)  m-m-my  fault.  Po-o-o-or  Keno! 
I  b-b-bub-broke  your  heart,  didn't  I?  " 

Whereupon  the  heartless  veterinary 
surgeon  muttered  something  about  "  fool 
women,"  packed  up  his  bottles  and  left. 
Miss  Allstar  heard,  but  she  said  she  didn't 
care.  To  this  day  she  declares  that  Keno 
[69] 


JUST    HORSES 

died  from  a  broken  heart  and  from  noth 
ing  else,  and  that  the  great  playwright 
who  was  really  to  blame,  is  a  sinful,  soul 
less  wretch ! 


[70] 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE 
CROWDED  WAY 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE 
CROWDED  WAY 

ONE  begins,  of  course,  on  a  farm. 
It  may  be  a  very  ordinary  sort  of 
farm,  where  they  raise  hogs  and  corn  as 
well  as  horses,  a  farm  where  you  are  bro 
ken  and  trained  by  a  Danish-born  ex-her 
ring  fisherman,  for  example.  Or  it  may 
be  that  you  start  on  a  fancy  stock  farm, 
where  they  breed  to  the  line,  where  they 
give  you  as  much  care  as  if  you  were  an 
heir  to  a  throne,  where  there  are  box  stalls, 
velvety  paddocks,  Yankee  trainers,  Cock 
ney  grooms,  balanced  rations,  and  all  that. 
But  start  any  way  you  may,  if  you 
come  up  fit,  if  you  are  the  cream  of  the 
get,  the  chances  are  nine  to  one  that,  when 
[73] 


JUST    HORSES 

you  are  two,  or  three,  or  four,  you  will 
leave  the  pasture  with  its  sweet  grass  and 
soft  brook  water,  you  will  quit  forever  the 
yielding1  dirt  roads  of  the  country,  and 
you  wrill  be  sent  to  do  your  work  in  the 
crowded  ways  of  the  city. 

Your  nerves  will  be  tested  and  your 
temper  tried  before  you  are  city  broken; 
but  if  you  come  to  it  young,  if  the  thing 
is  done  properly,  and  if  you've  any  sense 
of  your  own,  it  will  soon  be  over  with. 

True,  it  is  tough,  at  times.  If  you  are, 
for  instance,  a  high-strung  coach,  fresh 
from  a  Michigan  stud  farm,  and  find 
yourself  with  your  tail  sewed  up  in  red 
flannel  and  a  tag  on  your  bridle,  abruptly 
shunted  out,  car  sick  and  nervous,  into  the 
din  and  clamor  of  the  crowded  ways,  you 
will  probably  make  a  mess  of  things. 
You  will  hear  whirring  sounds,  clangs  of 
gongs,  shouts  of  men.  You  will  dodge 
[74] 


THE    CROWDED    WAY 

and  rear  and  try  to  squat  on  your 
haunches.  Then,  just  as  likely  as  not, 
some  fool  car  hostler  will  slap  you  across 
the  face  with  a  rope  halter  or  kick  you  in 
the  ribs.  That  will  be  his  way  of  teach 
ing  you  manners.  It's  a  poor  way,  of 
course.  Your  head  will  buzz,  your  bones 
will  ache,  and  you  will  be  on  the  verge  of 
panic.  You  wrill  wish  in  vain  that  you 
were  safely  back  in  paddock  or  pasture, 
kicking  the  turf  and  practicing  your  colt 
antics. 

Almost  before  you  know  it,  however, 
you  will  be  in  the  hands  of  men  who  un 
derstand  you  and  know  what  you  need. 
Then,  before  you  have  had  time  to  eat 
your  head  off,  you  will  be  set  to  work  do 
ing  some  one  of  the  thousands  of  things 
still  left  for  horses  to  do. 

For  a  week  or  so  you  will  have  a  tremen 
dously  uncomfortable  time  of  it.  You 
[75] 


JUST    HORSES 

will  worry  your  driver  a  lot,  and  you  will 
be  of  precious  little  use  to  any  one.  Then, 
gradually,  you  will  learn  many  things. 
You  will  come  to  know  that  the  strange 
devices  which  move  about  the  streets  are 
not  designed  expressly  to  do  you  harm. 
Those  terrifying  red  and  black  affairs 
with  fat  low  wheels  and  big,  glaring  eyes, 
things  which  go  pop-pop-pop  and  occa 
sionally  snort  weirdly,  they  will  do  you  no 
injury,  in  spite  of  their  ferocious  aspect 
and  the  fantastic  garb  of  the  folks  who 
ride  in  them.  At  first  you  will  start  and 
prance  when  they  shoot  past,  but  you 
will  be  surprised  to  see  how  quickly 
you  will  get  over  that.  Other  horses,  you 
will  notice,  pay  them  no  heed.  Your  mate, 
if  you  are  working  double,  will  give  them 
not  even  a  glance.  In  less  than  a  fort 
night  you  will  not  twitch  a  muscle 
when  a  big,  vermilion-colored  touring 
[76] 


THE  CROWDED  WAY 

car,  with  a  bear-skin-coated,  blue-gog 
gled,  leather-capped  chauffeur  puffs  by 
your  nose.  You  will  learn  to  know 
the  ring  of  a  cable-car  gong,  the  rat 
tle  of  an  ambulance,  the  overhead  roar 
of  the  elevated  cars,  the  shrill  whir  of  the 
trolley  wire,  and  the  other  major  notes 
that  go  to  make  up  the  thundering  chorus 
of  the  city  streets.  You  will  be  able  to 
distinguish — but  this  will  only  come  in 
time — the  warning  clang-clang  of  fire  ap 
paratus,  and  you  will  hug  the  curb  when 
you  hear  it. 

Your  first  trip  across  a  big  bridge  will 
make  you  prick  your  ears  and  set  your 
flanks  aquiver.  One  moment  you  are  on 
solid  pavement,  with  the  thronged  side 
walks  and  towering  buildings  shutting  in 
on  either  hand;  a  moment  later,  and 
your  hoofs  are  stamping  hollow  notes 
from  splintered  planks,  which  seem  to 
[77] 


JUST    HORSES 

give  and  sway  and  vibrate  in  a  most 
alarming  fashion.  Peering  out  beyond 
the  blinders,  you  see  that  you  are  up  in  the 
air.  With  ears  pointed,  nostrils  blowing, 
you  turn  and  look.  You  crowd  against 
the  pole  and  dance  a  bit.  But  you  get 
over  safe,  and  when  you  have  crossed  half 
a  dozen  times  you  forget  all  your  fears.  It 
is  much  the  same  in  traveling  on  ferry 
boats. 

In  the  end  you  come  to  see  that  you 
have  your  place  in  all  this  tangle  and  din, 
to  feel  that  you  have  certain  rights  of  way, 
and  that  you  need  have  no  care  other  than 
to  keep  your  head  and  handle  your  feet. 
This  last  is  no  easy  thing  to  learn.  You 
know  this  after  you  have  barked  your 
knees  over  manhole  covers  and  strained 
your  thighs  with  side  slips  on  flat  car 
rails  or  greasy  asphalt.  You  plant  your 
caulks  with  care,  and  you  acquire  the 
[78]  ' 


THE  CROWDED  WAY 

knack  of  finding  a  toe  hold.  You  learn  to 
throw  your  weight  on  the  collar  when  you 
see  a  sharply  tilted  ferry  bridgeway,  and 
to  settle  on  the  backing  straps  when  a  hel- 
meted  policeman  grabs  your  bits  in  the 
thick  of  a  street  jam. 

Such  wisdom  as  this,  and  much  more 
besides,  you  must  get  before  you  are  city 
broken.  But  when  you  have  it,  when  you 
know  the  rules  of  the  road,  then  you  go 
about  in  the  crowded  ways,  doing  as  best 
you  can  the  thing  which  you  were  bred  to 
do. 

Perhaps  you  are  a  big  ton-weight  Per- 
cheron  from  out  Iowa  way.  Then  your 
business  will  be  the  heavy  haul.  You  will 
wear  a  Boston  backing-hitch  rig,  with 
brass-tipped  hame  irons  and  half -inch 
leather  traces  that  an  elephant  couldn't 
break.  You  may  go  out  single  on  a  Cus 
tom  House  truck,  but  the  chances  are  that 
[79] 


JUST   HORSES 

you'll  do  your  work  in  double  harness ;  or, 
it  may  be,  in  a  triple-breast  team  with  a 
brewer's  wagon,  or  a  beef  or  flour  truck, 
behind  you.  Long  hours  will  be  your  lot. 
You  will  be  hooked  up  at  five  or  six  in  the 
morning,  and  you'll  not  stable  until  six 
or  seven  o'clock  at  night.  You  will  need 
all  your  weight,  too,  for  they  do  pile  the 
freight  on  those  big  trucks.  Cold  weather 
you'll  not  mind  a  bit.  There'll  be  exercise 
enough  to  keep  you  warm.  But  you'll 
sweat  when  August  comes,  and  at  all  sea 
sons  there  will  be  plenty  of  work  for  your 
big  muscles  to  do. 

Yet  they'll  treat  you  well  in  the  heavy 
draught  service.  They'll  feed  from  eigh 
teen  to  twenty- four  quarts  of  good  oats  a 
day,  you'll  always  find  a  lump  of  rock 
salt  in  your  manger,  they  will  curry  you 
good,  look  sharply  after  your  feet,  doctor 
a  shoulder  gall  the  minute  it  shows,  and 
[80] 


THE  CROWDED  WAY 

give  you  two  days'  resting  swing  a  week. 
Kind  of  them?  Not  a  bit.  It's  business. 
You  cost  a  lot,  you  do,  and  you  earn  your 
keep  a  dozen  times  over. 

If  you  stand  only  fifteen  two  or  three, 
if  you're  blockily  built,  with  a  banged  tail 
and  plenty  of  spring  in  knees  and  hock, 
then  there's  an  entirely  different  lot  of 
work  cut  out  for  you.  You'll  be  mated 
and  hitched  to  something  light  and 
shiny,  something  with  rubber-tired  wheels 
and  broadcloth  cushions.  It  may  be  a 
brougham  or  a  park  carriage.  Or,  if 
you're  big  enough,  you  will  work  single  in 
a  jiggly,  two-wheeled  trap  or  a  private 
hansom  with  nickel  gig  lamps.  You'll 
wear  quarter  blankets  with  somebody's 
monogram  or  crest  in  the  corner.  You 
may  be  overworked,  but  the  chances  are 
that  you'll  be  stall-weary  oftener  than 
harness-tired. 

[81] 


JUST    HORSES 

Most  likely  you'll  live  on  the  second  or 
third  floor  of  a  big  boarding  stable  along 
with  two  or  three  hundred  other  horses. 
If  they  feed  you  full  rations,  and  the  hos 
tlers  don't  beat  you  with  shovels,  you'll  be 
lucky.  Make  friends  with  the  hostlers 
if  you  can.  They're  a  cheap  lot,  those 
you  find  in  boarding  stables,  and 
often  they're  wicked  ugly  on  the  sly. 
If  you  must  kick  one,  kick  him  hard.  But 
don't  bite.  Nothing  gives  a  horse  a  bad 
name  quicker,  and  besides  it  isn't  manners. 

You'll  look  rather  gay  in  your  silver- 
mounted  harness,  with  perhaps  a  liveried 
driver  and  footman  on  the  box,  and  you'll 
have  a  lot  of  fun  jingling  your  pole- 
chains  and  stepping  high  along  the  ave 
nues  and  park  drives.  But  three  or  four 
years  of  this  will  take  the  ginger  out  of 
you.  You'll  lose  form  and  action.  Your 
knees  and  hocks  will  grow  stiff  from  the 
[82] 


THE  CROWDED  WAY, 

long  waits  in  the  cold  and  the  sudden 
starts  from  the  curb. 

Then  you  will  begin  your  visits  to  the 
sales  stable.  You  will  not  wear  mono- 
grammed  quarter  blankets  and  crested 
rosettes  after  that.  You'll  pull  public 
hacks  and  grocers'  carts  and  milk  wagons. 

Now,  with  a  stepper  it's  different. 
They  are  the  real  horse  aristocrats. 
They  come  to  town  in  style,  traveling  in 
palace  stock  cars — padded  box  stalls,  you 
know — with  their  own  stable  grooms 
sleeping  at  their  heels.  Those  are  the  ones 
that  have  registered  sires — out  of  Wild 
Fire  by  Sir  Brandon  (2.101/4).  At  the 
big  Garden  sales  you  may  see  them. 
They'll  have  their  names,  pedigree,  and 
owner's  statement  printed  in  a  book,  and 
the  bidding  will  start  at  two  hundred  with 
fifty-a-clip  better  until  the  hammer  falls. 
And  you'll  hear  the  auctioneer  saying 
[83] 


JUST    HORSES 

things  like  this:  "There, gentlemen, there's 
as  promising  a  little  mare  as  you'd  wish  to 
draw  rein  over.  As  you  see  by  our  cata 
logue,  she's  a  Directum.  Looks  it,  too, 
don't  she?  A  Directum,  gentlemen! 
Couldn't  ask  for  any  better  blood  than 
that,  could  you?  Now,  if  you  want  some 
thing  for  matinee  use  or  Speedway 
brushes,  here  she  is.  Mouth  like  a  kid 
glove,  disposition  as  sweet  as  new  milk, 
clean  legs,  and  dead  game,  I'll  promise 
you.  Trainer,  just  let  out  a  few  links  of 
chain  lightning  around  the  cinder  track, 
will  you?  That's  it!  Give  her  room,  gen 
tlemen.  Stand  back  at  the  turn!  How's 
that  for  action  ?  Clean  and  clear,  eh  ?  No 
boots,  you  notice.  There !  Now  she  warms 
up  to  it.  Hi!  hi!  Clear  track!  But  you 
should  see  her  step  a  mile  straight  away. 
Gentlemen,  if  that  little  mare  can't  knock 
splints  off  fifteen  I — I'll  eat  her  harness. 
[84] 


THE  CROWDED  WAY 

She's  a  Directum,  remember,  and  her 
blood  sister  has  a  record  of  eleven  and  a 
half.  Whoa!  That'll  do.  Now,  what  am 
I  offered?  Two  hundred?  Fifty?  Three 
hundred,  I  have.  And  a  quarter,  now  ?  I 
am  bid  three  hundred  and  a  quarter,  gen 
tlemen!  Who'll  make  it— ah,  fifty! 
Thank  you.  Three  fifty,  gentlemen!" 

That's  the  way  it  goes  when  you're 
from  Palo  Alto  or  Columbus,  or  Terre 
Haute,  or  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and 
promise  speed.  Suppose  you  make  good? 
Then  you're  in  clover.  You  become  the 
pet  of  somebody  at  once.  You  go  to  a 
private  stable  —  steam-heated,  electric- 
lighted,  composition  floors,  sanitary 
plumbing,  and  braided  straw  mats  for 
your  box  stall.  You'll  eat  selected  oats 
and  fancy  hay.  You'll  be  exercised  in 
double  blankets  and  hood,  and  two  or 
three  times  a  week,  when  the  stock  mar- 
[85] 


JUST   HORSES 

ket's  not  too  lively,  you'll  be  taken  out  to 
a  sixty-pound  spider-wheeled  road  wagon 
for  a  jog  up  the  Speedway  or  out  on  the 
Lake  drive.  You'll  win  a  brush  or  two, 
and  you'll  feel  so  cocky  that  you'd  go  to 
the  post  with  Lou  Dillon  or  any  other  rec 
ord-smasher  as  quick  as  you  would  tackle 
a  country  trotter.  And  the  man  in  driv 
ing  coat  and  dust  goggles  will  be  just  as 
bad.  He'll  begin  looking  up  events  and 
talking  knowingly  with  trainers,  and  at 
the  club  he  will  throw  out  hints  to  the 
effect  that  he  might  like  to  meet  some 
one  on  a  track  somewhere — oh,  quite 
privately,  you  know,  of  course — for  a 
little  purse. 

No,  there's  nothing  much  better  than 
being  in  the  Gentlemen's  Driving  Class. 
But,  really,  those  swells  have  little  to  do 
with  the  great  work  of  the  crowded  ways 
— no  more  than  have  the  hunters,  who 
[86] 


THE  CROWDED  WAY 

come  to  town  during  show  week,  or  the 
saddle  horses,  that  live  a  sort  of  hothouse 
existence  in  the  riding  academies  and  on 
the  park  bridle-paths. 

It's  the  common,  every-day  light 
draught,  such  as  are  sold  in  carload  lots 
at  the  Chicago  and  Buffalo  markets,  that 
do  the  real  work  of  the  city.  They  come 
in  from  the  West  and  East  and  South. 
They  are  shipped  in  from  Canada.  They 
haven't  a  number  in  any  stud  book.  They 
boast  no  registered  sires.  They  are  of  any 
and  all  breeds.  They  never  see  the  inside 
of  the  Garden.  They  are  to  be  found  at 
the  sales  stables  about  the  Bull's  Head, 
wrhere  their  destinies  are  shuffled  care 
lessly  at  the  rate  of  two  to  the  minute  on 
busy  days. 

When  they  are  young  and  sound  and 
well  mated  they  are  gobbled  up  by  the  big 
concerns.  The  express  companies  use  a 
[87] 


JUST    HORSES 

lot  of  them.  You're  well  taken  care  of  in 
an  express  stable,  but  the  drivers  get  out 
all  that's  in  you.  They  want  tight  traces 
and  a  lively  pace,  with  a  ton  or  two  on  the 
axles.  Wait  until  you've  been  through 
the  holiday  rush  and  you'll  know  what 
work  is.  You'll  be  all  right,  though,  so 
long  as  your  hoofs  stand  the  pounding; 
but  the  moment  your  feet  go  bad  back  you 
travel  to  the  sales  stable.  Then  there's 
trouble  ahead.  If  you  are  lucky  you'll  go 
out  of  town  with  some  farmer,  and  six 
months  of  dirt  roads  will  put  you  in  shape 
again.  But  you're  most  liable  to  stay  in 
the  city  as  a  cheap  horse.  A  delivery 
wagon  is  the  most  probable  thing.  It's 
not  a  pleasant  prospect — scatter-brained 
youngsters  for  drivers,  third-class  board 
ing  stables,  long  hours,  poor  feed,  and  the 
least  possible  care. 

At  this  period  you  may  expect  almost 
[88] 


any  kind  of  work,  from  general  carting  to 
pulling  a  Fifth  Avenue  stage.  If  you're 
real  skinny,  have  a  spavined  leg,  and  look 
fit  for  crow  bait,  then  you  may  be  enlisted 
into  the  service  of  Uncle  Sam  and  haul  a 
mail  wagon  through  the  city.  But,  per 
haps,  some  self-respecting  junk  collector 
or  fruit  vender  will  buy  you.  He  will  feed 
you  enough  to  work  on,  at  least.  Or  you 
may  be  hooked  up  with  another  relic  to  a 
moving  van. 

To  be  sure,  there  are  a  few  snug  berths, 
even  for  mongrel  light  draughts  in  good 
condition.  There's  the  Fire  Department. 
If  you  happen  to  get  on  an  engine  or  hose 
wagon  or  ladder-truck  team,  and  if  your 
nerves  are  sound,  you  are,  barring  acci 
dents,  well  fixed  for  years  to  come.  It's  a 
matter  of  nerves,  however.  If  you've  got 
too  many  you'll  not  last  in  that  business. 
If  you  get  in  the  habit  of  listening  for 
[89] 


JUST    HORSES 

the  jigger,  and  fussing  every  time  you're 
run  under  the  collar,  you'll  fret  the  fat  off 
your  ribs  in  no  time  at  all.  Then  they'll 
ship  you  back.  But  if  you  take  things 
easy  in  the  house,  put  your  last  pound  on 
the  traces  when  you  get  the  word,  and 
don't  get  excited  when  bricks  and  copings 
fall  about  you,  you'll  be  taken  as  good 
care  of  as  a  Speedway  crack,  and  you'll 
last  as  long  as  it  is  good  for  a  horse  to  stay 
in  harness. 

If  you  have  clean  legs,  good  wind,  and 
strong  loins,  there's  one  chance  in  a  thou 
sand  that  you'll  be  picked  out  for  service 
with  the  mounted  police.  Then  you'll 
wear  a  yellow-trimmed  saddle  blanket, 
and  carry  a  rider  who  will  treat  you  as  you 
would  like  to  be  treated.  During  most  of 
your  tour  of  duty  you'll  do  nothing  save 
stand  on  a  park  roadway  watching  the 
high-toned  rigs  go  by,  but  once  in  a  while 
[90] 


THE  CROWDED  WAY 

you'll  have  a  chance  to  show  your  speed  in 
rounding  up  a  runaway. 

You  may  start  high  or  you  may  start 
low,  but  mainly  you  will  finish  about  the 
same.  There  may  be  a  few  homes  for 
aged  and  disabled  horses — actually,  there 
are  such  places — but  their  capacity  is  lim 
ited,  and  for  the  great  majority  there 
awaits  the  three-dollar  knock-down  with  a 
ride  in  White's  hansom  as  an  end  to  all 
things. 

You  reach  the  three-dollar  mark  after 
you've  been  through  a  lot,  which  it  is  not 
nice  to  think  about.  You  hobble  up  to  the 
block  with  sprung  knees,  sunken  eyes, 
obvious  ribs,  and  stiffened  hocks. 

"  Here's  a  frame  for  you,  gents,  an  ele 
gant  frame,"  shouts  the  auctioneer,  and 
the  buyers  smile  at  the  ancient  jibe. 
'Who  wants  the  old  skate?  He's  war 
ranted  to  stand  without  hitching,  gents." 
[91] 


JUST    HORSES 

The  "  gents  "  laugh,  and  when  the  bidder 
gets  his  three-dollar  prize  they  roar. 

That's  your  last  sale,  however.  Some 
where,  perhaps  on  the  very  corner  where 
you  once  gave  a  driver  an  anxious  moment 
as  you  danced  about  and  tried  to  tear 
things  loose,  you  drop.  They  take  off  the 
harness  and  leave  you.  A  policeman  tele 
phones  to  White — White  of  the  Dead 
Horse  Dock.  Then  you  ride  in  the  han 
som.  It  isn't  a  hansom,  of  course.  It's  a 
low-swung,  four-wheeled,  covered  box 
with  a  windlass  that  hauls  you  in. 

But  you're  past  caring.  What  if  they 
do  take  you  to  Barren  Island?  What  if 
your  bones  are  worked  up  into  toothbrush 
handles,  your  hair  into  mattress  stuffing, 
and  the  rest  of  you  into  glue  and  fertili 
zer?  It's  all  in  the  running.  You  have 
done  your  share  of  the  city's  endless  toil 
ing.  It  has  used  you  up  and  you  have 
[92] 


THE  CROWDED  WAY 

been  cast  aside.  Well,  the  city  does  that 
with  men,  too.  But  you  have  lived  the  life 
of  the  crowded  way — lived  it  from  top  to 
bottom — and  if  that  isn't  worth  while, 
what  is? 


[93] 


THE  STORY  OF  PER 
ICLES  OF   SPREAD 
EAGLE   BATTERY 


THE  STORY  OF  PER 
ICLES   OF   SPREAD 
EAGLE   BATTERY 

FEW  horses  achieve  monuments  or  un 
dying  fame.     With  Pericles  it  was 
different.     Possibly  you  never  heard  of 
Pericles — not  the  old  Grecian,  you  know 
—but  Pericles  of  Spread  Eagle  Battery. 
Pericles  has   a  monument.    Perhaps  he 
didn't  achieve  it.    In  a  sense,  it  was  thrust 
upon  him,  as  you  shall  learn. 

Most  war  horses  begin  life  prosaically 
enough.  This  was  the  case  with  Pericles. 
When  Sumter  was  fired  upon,  Pericles 
was  stumping  a  six-acre  lot  on  an  Indiana 
farm.  It  was  neither  a  thrilling  nor  a 
[97] 


JUST    HORSES 

glorious  business,  this  stump  pulling. 
You  waited  until  the  chains  were  properly 
fastened ;  then  as  the  word  was  given  you, 
you  jumped  ahead  for  all  that  was  in  you, 
rammed  your  shoulders  against  the  collar, 
and  dug  in  your  toes  as  lively  as  you  could. 
Generally  you  were  brought  up  all  stand 
ing,  with  a  fine  rattle  of  trace  chains  and 
a  snap  of  whiffletrees,  because  the  stump 
refused  to  budge.  When  they  had  dug 
with  spades  and  cut  away  more  roots,  you 
tried  it  again,  and  you  jerked  the  old 
thing  a  rod  or  two  before  you  could  stop. 
The  six-acre  lot  was  more  than  half 
stumped  when  Pericles  went  to  the  front 
with  a  volunteer  cavalry  regiment.  His 
business  was  to  draw  an  ancient  brass 
three-pounder,  of  which  the  men  of  Com 
pany  K,  who  had  made  the  contribution, 
were  immensely  proud.  They  expected  to 
see  it  rout  the  enemy  the  first  time  it 
[98] 


THE   STORY   OF   PERICLES 

barked.  You  cannot  imagine  their  deep 
disgust  when  on  being  brigaded  the  brass 
piece  was  lost  in  the  shuffle.  Pericles  was 
transferred  to  a  regular  battery. 

It  was  all  one  to  Pericles.  When  you 
have  been  unceremoniously  yanked  from 
the  peaceful  routine  of  stump  pulling, 
when  you  have  had  a  branding  iron  used  on 
your  left  shoulder,  when  you  have  been 
hustled  aboard  stock-cars,  jostled  and  rat 
tled  and  banged  about  for  three  or  four 
days,  and  finally  have  been  ushered  into 
the  wild  turmoil  of  an  army  field  head 
quarters,  you  are  not  likely  to  notice 
whether  you  are  hooked  to  a  brass  three- 
pounder  or  put  in  as  nigh  lead  on  a  six- 
horse  team  with  a  big  siege-gun  behind 
you.  It  might  have  been  a  breaking  plow 
or  a  canal  boat,  for  all  Pericles  knew.  In 
deed,  it  pulled  like  both  together,  when 
the  wheels  mired,  for  the  old  six-pounder 
[99] 


JUST   HORSES 

weighed  almost  a  ton  by  itself,  not  to 
mention  the  stout  oak  carriage  and  the 
loaded  limber-chest. 

That  which  bothered  Pericles  most  was 
the  man  on  his  back.  Pericles  had  been 
ridden  before,  of  course.  Also  he  had 
jumped  heavy  loads  over  bad  going  in  a 
hurry.  It  was  the  combination  of  being 
ridden  and  driven  at  the  same  time,  which 
was  new,  as  well  as  the  sensation  of  hear 
ing  other  horses  pounding  along  behind 
him. 

Not  all  horses  would  have  stood  it,  but 
Pericles,  strong  of  loin,  heavy  of  shoul 
der  and  well  barreled,  was  built  for  just 
such  work.  One  soon  gets  used  to  things 
too,  when  new  experiences  turn  up,  not 
once  a  year,  but  every  hour.  You  simply 
had  to  get  used  to  things  in  the  Spread 
Eagle  Battery,  for  the  brigade  com 
mander  was  a  West-Pointer  who  knew  the 
[100] 


THE   STORY  OF  PERICLES 

use  of  six-pounders  and  believed  in  keep 
ing  them  hot  on  all  possible  occasions. 
Never,  though,  could  Pericles  forget  the 
first  time  he  went  into  action.  The  whole 
morning  he  had  been  jumping  and  quiv 
ering.  What  could  all  the  rattling  and 
banging  be  about  ?  Why  did  the  air  smell 
so  queer?  Where  were  they  going,  and 
what  were  they  about  to  do? 

For  hours  they  had  been  moving  along 
a  densely  crowded  road,  edging  their  way 
past  long  lines  of  foot  and  horse.  Sud 
denly  the  bugles  called  high  and  clear. 
Commands  were  sharply  passed.  He  was 
urged  into  a  gallop.  Through  a  fence 
they  went,  across  a  field  and  straight  to 
ward  a  bare  knoll  which  seemed  to  be  in 
the  thick  of  the  muss. 

Things  went  whizzing  over  his  head. 
Other  things  pattered  in  the  dust  be 
fore  him.  In  the  air  above  were  noises 
[101] 


JUST    HORSES 

— shrieking,  whining  noises,  and  now 
and  then  an  ominous  "  R-r-r-r-ip 
boo-m-m-m ! "  It  all  was  disturbing. 
Pericles  tried  to  stop  and  dance  and  snort, 
but  the  long-legged  man  on  his  back  dug 
boot  heels  into  his  ribs  and  yelled  tumultu- 
ously.  There  was  nothing  to  do  except  to 
go  ahead,  and  he  did  that  with  all  the 
mighty  strength  of  his  big  muscles.  The 
other  five  horses  did  the  same,  and  with  a 
slap-bang  bumpety-bump  that  old  gun 
was  snaked  to  the  crest  of  the  knoll. 
Then,  with  a  whirl  which  set  his  head  spin 
ning,  they  were  turned,  the  gun  unhooked 
and  the  whole  six  of  them  galloped  off 
with  the  caisson  down  under  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  where  they  could  stand  in  com 
parative  safety,  watching  the  cannoneers 
swarming  about  the  pieces  like  so  many 
jumping- jacks. 

It  was  there  that  Pericles  began  to  get 
[102] 


THE   STORY   OF   PERICLES 

acquainted  with  the  ways  of  Slat.  Little- 
field,  the  long-geared,  smooth-tongued 
driver  of  the  lead  team.  Slat,  was  pat 
ting  his  neck  and  talking  to  him  in  pe 
culiarly  soothing  tones. 

"  So-o-o,  there,  old  tamarack.  Easy, 
boy.  Never  you  mind  the  Minie-balls; 
they  won't  hurt  you,  less'n  one  hits  you, 
and  you'll  never  know  about  it  if  it  does. 
So-o-o-o,  now,  easy  does  it.  Yes,  that's  a 
four-pound  shell  coming  this  way — miau- 
ow-wow — with  the  fuse  fizzing.  Bang! 
There  she  goes,  and  never  touched  a  hair 
of  us.  The  Johnnies  ain't  got  the  range, 
nor  they  won't  get  it  after  the  Spread 
Eagle  boys  get  to  work.  So-o-o,  now. 
You'll  hear  a  heap  bigger  noise  than  that 
in  about  two  shakes.  There  goes  the  pow 
der  charge  into  our  old  Slabsides.  Now 
the  wad.  Ram  her  home,  Seth !  And  the 
pill!  Now,  my  boy,  easy  with  you.  It's 
[103] 


JUST    HORSES 

a-comin',  it's  a-comin—  Whoa  up,  there ! 
So-o-o-o !  You're  ail- 
But  the  rest  was  lost  in  a  sudden  tre 
mendous  roar  which  seemed  to  split  the  sky 
and  drop  the  pieces  on  his  head.  He  reared 
and  pawed  the  air  in  blind  panic.  He 
danced  sidewise  into  his  mate.  He 
plunged  forward.  There  came  another 
roar  and  another.  He  could  feel  the  earth 
shake  under  his  hoofs.  A  dense,  gray, 
pungent-smelling  cloud  drifted  down 
from  the  hilltop  and  enveloped  him.  He 
breathed  and  ejected  it  in  short,  excited 
snorts. 

In  fact,  Pericles  did  most  of  the  things 
which  green  artillery  horses  usually  do. 
When  it  was  over,  when  the  distant  bat 
tery  had  ceased  to  answer,  when  the  crack 
and  rattle  of  small  arms  could  be  heard 
no  longer,  he  stood,  nerve-shaken,  foam- 
flecked,  red-nostriled  —  but  thoroughly 
[104] 


THE   STORY   OF   PERICLES 

battle  broken.  Why,  in  less  than  a  fort 
night  he  would  calmly  crop  the  grass 
forty  yards  behind  the  trail  stakes  while 
Spread  Eagle'  six-pounders  barked  them 
selves  hoarse.  Nor  was  this  all.  For  Slat. 
Littlefield  he  had  developed  huge  respect. 
Who  wouldn't?  Wasn't  he  the  smartest 
team  driver  in  the  battery? 

Couldn't  he  bring  old  Slabsides  to  the 
front,  unhook  and  get  away  with  the  lim 
ber  before  any  other  gun  was  in  position? 
Was  there  a  man  in  the  regiment  who 
could  yell  louder,  ride  harder,  work  faster 
or  talk  slicker  than  Slat.  Littlefield? 
Hadn't  the  senior  Colonel  said  so  himself? 
Didn't  the  companies  cheer  as  Slat,  tore 
past  on  his  big  gray,  with  two  men  on  the 
gun  and  five  on  the  limber  chest,  to  open 
the  ball? 

Besides,  Slat.  Littlefield  knew  How  to 
take  care  of  horses  as  well  as  how  to  Han- 
[105] 


JUST   HORSES 

die  them.  Other  drivers  might  miss  con 
nections  with  the  quartermaster's  wagons, 
but  Slat,  always  managed  to  have  his 
grain  bags  full.  And  who  dressed  the 
saber  slash  in  Pericles'  neck  after  Jeb. 
Stuart's  cavalry  charged  over  the  guns? 
It  was  Slat.  Who  was  it  dug  the  spent 
musket-ball  out  of  Pericles'  rump,  picked 
the  piece  of  shell  from  his  shoulder  and 
bathed  the  hurts  with  liniment?  Slat. 
It  was  Slat,  also  who  taught  Pericles  to 
lie  down  when  the  chain  shot  and  shrapnel 
got  to  whistling  too  close  overhead. 
Other  things  did  Slat,  teach  him  during 
the  long  months  in  permanent  camp ;  such 
as  the  standing  trot,  which  keeps  one's 
nerves  quiet  while  waiting  orders  under 
fire,  the  fancy  pirouette,  purely  unessen 
tial,  and  a  burlesque  "  attention "  pose 
which  never  failed  to  make  the  inspection 
officers  grin. 

[106] 


THE   STORY  OF   PERICLES 

It  was  pure  luck,  of  course;  yet  horses 
came  and  horses  went,  lead  mates,  swings 
and  wheelers,  but  Pericles  stayed  in  the 
traces,  hauling  old  Slabsides  up  and  down 
the  Potomac  and  across  Virginia,  leading 
Spread  Eagle  Battery  into  all  sorts  of 
violent  musses,  and  escaping  with  no  more 
than  an  occasional  scratch.  Slat.  Little- 
field  stayed  too,  thwarting  each  attempted 
promotion  by  some  reckless,  lawless 
prank,  earning  alternately  high  praise 
and  the  guard-house. 

And  when  the  business  was  finished, 
when  both  had  been  mustered  out  of  the 
service,  and  Spread  Eagle  Battery  was 
only  a  proud  memory,  they  drifted  apart 
as  they  had  drifted  together. 

Pericles  did  not  have  even  a  farewell 

pat  on  the  neck  from  his  old  driver,  for 

Mr.  Slattery  Littlefield,  suddenly  released 

from   discipline,   with  eighteen   months' 

[107] 


JUST    HORSES 

back  pay  in  his  pockets,  was  careening 
riotously  about  the  national  Capital,  gor 
geously  but  irregularly  arrayed  in  the 
full-dress  uniform  of  a  cavalry  Captain, 
to  the  distinct  annoyance  of  the  provost's 
guard. 

As  for  Pericles,  he  netted  the  War  De 
partment  some  thirty-seven  dollars,  and 
was  returned  to  civil  life  as  nigh  horse  on 
a  dirt  wagon,  beginning  his  humble  share 
in  the  work  of  reconstruction  by  helping 
to  excavate  a  cellar  for  a  dry  goods  store 
in  a  great  metropolis. 

However,  one  cannot  spend  four  years 
in  the  artillery,  especially  in  such  a  battery 
as  the  Spread  Eagle,  without  being  more 
or  less  unfitted  for  the  commonplaces  of 
civilian  life.  Pericles  found  it  so;  like 
wise  Slat.  Littlefield. 

Thus  it  happened  that  one  day  in  the 
early  seventies  there  limped  out  before  a 
[108] 


THE   STORY  OF   PERICLES 

crowd  of  auction  buyers  the  sorry  wreck 
of  a  sixteen-hand  gray  horse.  He  was 
knee-sprung  and  saddle-galled.  You 
could  have  dropped  an  egg  into  the  hol 
lows  over  his  eyes.  On  his  left  shoulder 
was  an  old  army  brand. 

"  Here  you  are,  gents !  "  called  the  auc 
tioneer.  "  A  four-legged  hero  of  the  late 
unpleasantness.  He's  a  little  the  worse 
for  wear,  but  he's  still  in  the  ring  and 
hasn't  asked  for  a  pension.  Who  wants  a 
vet?  How  much  for  a  horse  that  helped 
put  down  the  rebellion?  " 

There  was  a  laugh,  but  no  bid. 

'  What,  not  a  patriot  here?  Can't  any 
of  you  gents  use  an  ex-war  horse?  Will 
you  let  a  hero  of  Gettysburg  go  to  the 
glue  factory? " 

'  Ten  dollars!  "  shouted  some  one. 

"Sold!"  promptly  declared  the  auc 
tioneer.  "Ah,  and  to  an  old  comrade!" 
[109] 


JUST    HORSES 

he  added  as  a  man  with  a  faded-blue  cape- 
coat  over  his  arm  came  forward. 

"Holy  cats,  it's  old  Pericles!"  ex 
claimed  the  bidder. 

Perhaps  Pericles  did  not  remember  his 
old  driver — we  know  that  he  did,  of 
course,  but  there  are  some  folks  who  sniff 
at  such  things — but  at  any  rate  Slat.  Lit- 
tlefield  knew  him,  and  did  not  regret  the 
impulse  which  had  prompted  the  bid,  al 
though  just  at  that  moment  Slat,  had  as 
much  use  for  a  horse  as  an  Eskimo  has 
for  a  palm-leaf  fan. 

Chance,  which  had  sent  him  here  and 
there  about  the  country,  had  led  Mr.  Lit- 
tlefield  to  that  horse  auction.  The  jibes 
of  the  auctioneer  had  done  the  rest.  Al 
though  his  entire  capital  was  a  ten-dollar 
bill  and  a  small  wad  of  scrip,  he  promptly 
paid  the  price,  bought  a  second-hand  bri 
dle,  mounted  his  purchase,  and  rode  away 
[110] 


THE   STORY  OF  PERICLES 

just  as  if  that  was  what  he  had  intended 
all  along.  Not  until  they  were  clear  of 
the  city  did  he  dismount  and  take  stock 
of  the  future.  Seating  himself  on  a  rock, 
he  eyed  the  old  gray  critically. 

"  Well,  Pericles,  old  boy,"  he  said,  "  I 
guess  we're  about  a  pair.  Used  you 
rough,  ain't  they?  Worked  you  some 
harder'n  I  did  on  the  gun,  eh?  And  they 
was  goin'  to  send  you  to  the  glue  factory ! 
Not  much,  Pericles!  You've  been  too 
good  a  horse  for  that.  You  deserve  better 
of  your  country.  You  ought  to  have  a 
home  somewhere,  a  good  home;  and  by 
thunder,  Slat.  Littlefield  will  find  you  one 
before  he  quits! 

"  But  you  need  a  rest,  first,  and  some 
fat  on  those  old  ribs.  Suppose  we  take  a 
little  jaunt  together,  you  'n'  me,  some 
thing  like  what  we  used  to  take  when  we 
were  promenadin'  up  and  down  the  Po- 
[111] 


JUST    HORSES 

tomac,  only  more  casual.  Seeing  it's 
spring,  we'll  work  north  and  have  a  look 
at  the  country." 

It  was  not  a  definite  program,  but  it 
suited  Pericles,  and  Littlefield  seemed  to 
enjoy  it. 

"  Bless  me,  if  it  don't  seem  good  to 
throw  a  leg  over  a  horse  once  more! "  he 
frequently  remarked. 

So  up  through  New  York  State  and 
on  into  New  England  this  picturesque 
pair  advanced,  the  gray  old  horse  and  the 
long-legged  rider  who  used  a  blue  army 
overcoat  as  a  saddle-blanket.  How  Peri 
cles  did  enjoy  it!  When  one  has  been 
bred  for  the  drudgery  of  city  hauling  and 
has  known  nothing  else,  it  is  not  so  bad. 
But  when  one  has  galloped  to  bugle  mu 
sic,  has  stabled  under  the  stars  and  be 
tween  the  guns,  and  when  one  has 
known  such  a  driver  as  Slat.  Littlefield, 
[112] 


THE   STORY   OF   PERICLES 

a   dirt  wagon  becomes   an   abomination. 

What  a  careless,  happy-go-lucky  trip 
they  made  of  it,  stopping  when  there  was 
anything  to  pause  for,  moving  on  when 
they  pleased  and  at  their  own  gait !  Occa 
sionally,  under  the  inspiration  of  one  of 
Slat.'s  old-time  yells,  Pericles  shook  out 
his  stiffness,  threw  up  his  head,  and  gal 
loped  at  something  like  his  old  pace. 

Early  in  their  wanderings  Littlefield 
felt  the  need  of  a  reasonable  and  logical 
explanation  of  his  errand.  Groups  of 
loungers  about  the  village  stores  were  apt 
to  be  curious.  They  seemed  better  satis- 
fled  if  one  told  them  a  good  yarn.  So 
there  was  evolved  a  bit  of  fiction  intended 
to  please. 

At  first  Pericles  was  merely  "  my  old 

Lieutenant's  horse,  that  I'm  takin'  up  into 

Maine  to  be  turned  out  to  pasture."  Then 

it  was  a  Captain  who  was  sending  his 

[113] 


JUST   HORSES 

mount  back  to  his  old  home.  Next  the 
Captain  became  a  Major.  But  at  last, 
determined  to  do  the  thing  handsomely 
while  he  was  about  it,  Littlefield  hit  upon 
the  audacious  fabrication  to  which  he 
stuck,  except  for  little  niceties  of  elabora 
tion,  until  he  almost  believed  it  himself. 
It  ran  something  like  this : 

"  Army  horse?  Yes,  pardner,  you're 
right.  There's  Uncle  Sam's  mark  on  his 
shoulder,  plain  enough.  Cavalry?  Well, 
I  should  say  so!  Best  cavalry  horse  in  the 
Union  army,  he  was ;  though  you  wouldn't 
think  it  to  look  at  him  now,  would  you? 

"  Ever  hear  of  Pericles?  Well,  ask  any 
man  that  ever  rode  with  Sherman  who 
Pericles  was.  Yes,  that's  him,  Sherman's 
horse,  the  one  that  carried  him  all  the  way 
from  Atlanta  to  the  sea.  Thinks  a  heap 
of  him,  the  General  does,  more'n  he  ever 
thought  of  me,  and  I  was  body-guard  to 
[114] 


THE   STORY  OF   PERICLES 

him  for  over  a  year.  Pericles  saved  the 
old  man's  neck  a  dozen  times,  I  guess. 
That's  why  he's  sendin'  him  by  me,  in 
stead  of  lettin'  him  be  banged  around  in 
stock-cars.  Where?  Oh,  down  Bangor 
way.  Cousin  of  the  General's  going  to 
take  him  and  keep  him  in  clover  the  rest  of 
his  days.  Battles?  He's  been  in  more  of 
'em  than  he's  got  hairs  in  his  tail.  See  that 
old  scar  on  his  neck?  Saber  cut,  down  on 
the  Rapidan.  Shouldn't  wonder  but  he's 
got  half  a  pound  or  so  of  rebel  lead  in  him 
now.  Yes,  Pericles  was  a  first-class  horse. 
Sherman  thinks  so,  anyway." 

Just  how  many  thousands  were  treated 
to  a  sight  of  "  General  Sherman's  war 
horse  "  during  that  summer  would  be  a 
subject  of  vain  speculation.  Usually  the 
story  would  spread  over  an  entire  village 
in  from  ten  to  fifteen  minutes,  and  Little- 
field  would  be  called  upon  to  repeat  the 
[115] 


JUST    HORSES 

details  to  each  fresh  lot  of  curious  ar 
rivals.  The  results  indicated  that  senti 
ment  was  not  dead,  that  patriotism  still 
burned.  Pericles  found  himself  quar 
tered  comfortably,  fed  generously  and 
made  much  of.  Nor  did  Littlefield  lack 
entertainment. 

Yet,  somehow,  or  other,  Pericles  would 
not  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing. 
Whenever  he  found  himself  the  center  of 
an  open-mouthed,  staring-eyed  group  of 
men  and  boys,  and  Littlefield  began  the 
familiar  tale,  Pericles  would  drop  his  head 
sheepishly  and  appear  as  much  unlike  a 
cavalry  charger  as  possible.  Almost  one 
might  have  thought  that  he  understood 
and  was  ashamed  of  being  a  party  to  such 
deception. 

Well,  along  in  August  something  hap 
pened  which  caused  an  abrupt  change  in 
Littlefield's  plans.  It  was  a  chance  meet- 
[116] 


THE   STORY   OF   PERICLES 

ing  with  an  old  tent-mate  who  was  bound 
for  some  new  gold  fields  that  he  vaguely 
described  as  being  "  out  in  the  Indian 
lands." 

"  Better  go  along,  Slat.,'"  urged  he. 
"  They're  making  rich  strikes  every  day. 
Oh,  I'll  stake  you  to  tickets  if  you'll  go." 

Slat,  glanced  at  Pericles  and  hesitated. 

"  Tell  you  what  I'll  do  ,"  he  said.  "You 
wait  for  me  two  days  in  Boston  and  I'll 
go.  How's  that?"  This  suited. 

"  And  now,  Pericles,"  confided  Little- 
field  when  they  were  once  more  alone  on 
the  road,  "  wre've  got  to  find  a  home  for 
you,  even  if  I  have  to  swear  you're  one  of 
Pharaoh's  original  team." 

But  the  Sherman  story,  remodeled  to 
suit  the  urgent  need  of  the  occasion, 
proved  to  be  all  sufficient.  When  Miss 
Arabella  Pinkham  heard  it,  heard  how 
General  Sherman's  old  war-horse  was 
[117] 


doomed  to  wear  out  his  noble  soul  as  a 
brick-yard  drudge,  she  wept  on  Pericles' 
battle-scarred  neck. 

She  was  a  spinster,  was  Miss  Pinkham. 
Some  called  her  eccentric.  But  she  was 
sole  heiress  of  the  Pinkham  estate,  and 
she  had  a  way  of  doing  about  as  she 
pleased.  Patriotism  was  her  besetting  vir 
tue.  Her  ancestors  had  fought  at  Lex 
ington,  and  she  never  permitted  herself 
to  forget  it.  She  herself  had  joined  the 
Abolition  movement  early  in  the  fifties. 
Besides,  of  all  the  Union  heroes,  Sherman 
had  been  her  idol. 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  a  shameful  thing! " 
she  protested. 

"  It's  too  blamed  bad,  I  know,"  con 
fessed  Littlefield;  "but  I  can't  just  help 
it.  I  can't  afford  to  feed  him  any  longer. 
I  wrote  to  the  General  about  having  the 
old  horse  he  used  to  ride ;  but  I  guess  he's 
[118] 


THE    STORY   OF   PERICLES 

been  too  busy  to  answer,  or  else  he  never 
got  the  letter  at  all.  Anyway,  when  that 
brick-yard  man  offered  me  fifty  dollars 
for  Pericles  if  I'd  fetch  him  up  there  I 
just  had  to  say  I'd  take  it.  But  it's  like 
partin'  from  a  brother  to  let  him  go. 
Now,  if  I  could  only  find  some  one  that 
appreciated  him  for  what  he  is  and  would 
give  him  a  good  home  I — I'd  sell  him  for 
—well,  forty  dollars.  Yes,  I  would,  by 
gum! " 

"  Oh,  would  you?  "  demanded  Arabella. 

:<  Well,  I  would  for  forty-five,  any 
way." 

He  did,  throwing  in  a  most  elaborate 
and  vivid  description — wholly  new  and 
original — of  valorous  deeds  in  which  Peri 
cles  had  assisted.  Then,  with  the  money 
in  his  pocket,  he  hastened  back  to  Boston. 
Presumably  he  went  after  gold,  for  of 
Slat.  Littlefield,  who  drove  the  lead  horses 


of   Spread   Eagle   Battery,   there   is   no 
further  record. 

As  to  Pericles — well,  he  had  known 
hard  work  and  rough  usage  for  many 
years.  He  was  ready  for  something  dif 
ferent.  True,  the  devotion  of  Arabella 
Ann  Pinkham  frequently  translated  it 
self  in  odd  and  unexpected  ways.  It  is 
doubtful,  for  instance,  if  Pericles  appre 
ciated  the  cabbage-rose  wall-paper  with 
which  his  stall  was  decorated,  or  the  rag- 
carpet  rug  under  his  forefeet.  Possibly 
there  were  lost  on  him  the  beauties  of  the 
framed  chromo  of  General  Sherman,  the 
mirror  above  his  feed-box  and  the  dimity 
curtains  at  the  side  window. 

But  the  freedom  of  the  big  pasture  in 
summer,  the  heavy,  quilted  blankets  in 
winter  and  a  diet  of  unheard-of  dainties- 
such  as  hot  mince  pie  and  molasses  cookies 
and  custard  pudding — were  all  most  ac- 
[120] 


THE   STORY  OF  PERICLES 

ceptable.  The  petted  buffs  in  the  royal 
mews  of  Buckingham  never  grew  fatter 
or  lazier,  never  lumbered  along  with  more 
cumbrous  dignity  than  did  Pericles  in  his 
last  days.  And  when  at  the  ripe  age  of 
almost  twenty  he  ceased  to  be,  he  was  laid 
at  rest  near  the  big  lilac  bush  in  the  front 
yard. 

The  monument  was  no  afterthought. 
It  was  all  prepared,  except  for  the  cutting 
of  the  date,  two  years  before  the  sad 
event.  And  there  it  stands  now,  a  three- 
ton  block  of  New  Hampshire  granite. 
On  its  one  polished  surface  you  may  read 

this: 

In  Memory  of 

PERICLES 

The  gallant   steed   who   carried   General 
W.  T.  Sherman  on  his  famous  march 

from  Atlanta  to  the  sea. 

Erected   by   his   last   owner   and   loving 

mistress,  Arabella  Ann  Pinkham, 

Sept.  21,  1875 

[121] 


JUST   HORSES 

To  be  sure,  Pericles  never  did  anything 
of  the  kind.  Yet  what  of  that?  Did  any 
fancy  charger  better  serve  the  country 
than  the  nigh  lead  on  Spread  Eagle  Bat 
tery's  Number  One  gun?  If  his  last  years 
were  made  smooth  for  him,  did  he  not 
merit  as  much?  As  for  the  monument, 
you  have  seen  how  it  was,  in  a  sense,  thrust 
upon  him.  Besides,  who  believes  all  that 
folks  write  on  monuments,  anyway? 


[  122  ] 


FIDDLER 


FIDDLER 

HAVING  been  the  owner  of  Fiddler 
for  almost  two  weeks,  Mr.  Hiram 
Proggins  arrived  somewhat  abruptly  at 
the  conclusion  that  he  had  made  a  mistake. 
Either  Fiddler  was  not  the  horse  for  him 
or  he  was  not  the  man  for  Fiddler.  From 
his  perch  on  the  grain-box  Mr.  Proggins 
stared  in  dissatisfied  contemplation  at  the 
stall  where  Fiddler's  white  nose  was  sub 
merged  in  the  manger.  Yes,  a  mistake 
had  been  made. 

Fiddler  had  known  it  all  along.  There 
were  horses,  plenty  of  them,  that  would 
have  suited  Hi  Proggins.  Some  horses, 
you  know,  don't  care  a  clover-head  who 
own  them.  Fiddler  was  not  of  this  kind. 
[125] 


JUST    HORSES 

He  could  make  distinctions,  and  very  fine 
ones,  sometimes.  The  mere  sight  of  Prog- 
gins  aroused  his  suspicions,  and  when 
Fiddler  first  felt  the  touch  of  the  new 
owner's  hands  on  the  reins  he  was  assured 
by  that  subtle  instinct  common  to  every 
good  horse,  that  he  and  Mr.  Proggins 
were  not  in  accord  and  never  could  be. 

In  the  first  place,  Proggins  was  glum 
and    unsociable.    Fiddler's    chief    traits 
were  cheerfulness  and  sociability.     Also, 
he  had  that  which  many  scientific  folks 
will  tell  you  no  animal  possesses — a  sense 
of  humor.     Judging  him  by  a  full-face 
view,  you  would  never  guess  it.    Fiddler 
had  a  long  head — an  abnormally  long  head 
—which  gave  to  his  frontal  expression  a 
solemn,  almost  lugubrious  cast.    Perhaps 
no  horse  ever  carried  about  such  a  dole 
ful  face.     It  was  grotesquely  woebegone. 
But  view  him  from  either  side,  get  the 
[126] 


FIDDLER 

effect  of  his  parrot  nose,  note  the  sly  hu 
mor  of  his  drooping  eyelids,  the  merry 
drollery  lurking  in  the  mouth  corners,  the 
mischievous  twitching  of  his  pendant  up 
per  lip,  and  you  would  find  yourself  grin 
ning  out  of  sheer  sympathy  with  his  jovial 
mood. 

Mr.  Proggins,  however,  did  not  grin. 
He  never  grinned.  The  face  of  Proggins 
was  not  fashioned  for  such  purpose. 
Mainly  it  was  whiskered — not  with  a  long, 
benevolent  beard,  nor  with  an  aristocratic 
Vandyke.  It  bristled  with  a  coarse,  scrag 
gy,  untractable,  sandy-hued  growth  that 
suggested  irritability  of  temper.  As  for 
the  eyes  of  Proggins,  no  one  might  know 
what  they  expressed,  for  they  were  deeply 
set  under  bushy  brows  and  further  hid 
den  by  an  overgrown  pair  of  smoked 
glasses.  Those  glasses  puzzled  Fiddler, 
as  well  they  might,  for  they  gave  to  the 
[127] 


JUST   HORSES 

unattractive  face  of  Proggins  a  weird, 
sinister  expression. 

This  was  unfortunate.  Proggins  was 
not  a  bad  fellow.  He  was  simply  an  un 
successful  inventor  whose  disposition  had 
been  somewhat  soured.  Chiefly  this  was 
due  to  misdirected  effort,  for  Proggins 
had  inventive  genius  of  no  mean  order. 
But  he  misused  it.  Was  there  anything 
along  impossible  or  impractical  lines, 
Proggins  thought  of  it  and  straightway 
set  himself  the  task  of  inventing  it.  He 
invented  a  mattress  that  would  turn  itself 
over  once  in  ten  days,  provided  that  you 
wound  up  the  weights  and  set  the  clock 
work  properly.  The  fact  that  the  great 
American  public  did  not  yearn  for  a  self- 
turning  mattress  embittered  the  mind  of 
Proggins.  A  lawn-mower  that  could  be 
converted  into  a  feed-cutter,  a  hand-culti 
vator,  a  churn,  or  a  coffee-grinder  was  an- 


FIDDLER 

other  ingenious  boon  that  the  public  de 
clined  to  appreciate. 

The  two  or  three  inventions  which  had 
proved  of  real  value  brought  him  meagre 
returns  because  manufacturers'  agents 
had  juggled  the  patent  rights  to  that  end. 
But  always  and  endlessly,  despite  fail 
ure  and  reverses,  were  Proggins's  best 
thoughts,  most  of  his  income,  and  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  devoted  to  the 
construction  of  a  perpetual-motion  ma 
chine,  which  seemed  doomed  to  be  per 
petually  motionless. 

It  was  this  unoriginal  folly  that  had 
estranged  kin  and  friends,  that  had 
caused  Proggins  to  leave  town  and  seek 
the  seclusion  of  a  ten-acre  farm  off  the 
County  House  Road.  There,  in  un- 
painted,  ramshackle  buildings  huddled 
among  unpruned  trees  and  surrounded  by 
untilled  fields,  Proggins  lived  like  a 
[129] 


JUST   HORSES 

hermit,  working  at  vain  things,  dreaming 
vain  dreams,  and  cherishing  resentment 
against  a  careless  world. 

About  once  a  week  Proggins  reluctant 
ly  tramped  into  the  nearest  town  for  sup 
plies  and  material.  With  the  purpose  of 
making  these  trips  still  more  infrequent, 
he  decided  to  buy  a  horse.  Unluckily  for 
both,  Fiddler  chanced  to  be  the  animal 
which  fate  and  an  unsympathetic  horse- 
dealer  picked  out  to  share  his  lot. 

When  you  have  pulled  a  post-cart  over 
a  suburban  mail  route  for  some  five  years 
you  come  to  know  a  lot  of  folks  and  a  lot 
of  folks  come  to  know  you.  When  you 
are  watched  for  every  day  by  several  hun 
dred  persons,  when  you  establish  intimate 
relations  with  a  whole  neighborhood,  then 
your  work  ceases  to  be  mere  drudgery. 
Fiddler  had  found  it  so.  He  liked  to  see 
them,  the  women  and  children,  and  some- 
[130] 


FIDDLER 

times  the  men,  standing  at  the  gate  watch 
ing  for  him.  They  seemed  glad  to  have 
him  stop,  even  though  he  left  nothing 
more  than  the  weekly  paper  or  a  patent- 
medicine  almanac.  They  brought  him 
things  to  eat, — bunches  of  clover  whose 
honey-laden  tops  were  deliciously  sweet, 
red  summer  apples,  and  on  baking-days 
fresh  crullers  and  ginger  cookies.  He 
liked  his  driver,  too — a  jolly  chap  who 
whistled  and  sang  as  Fiddler  jogged 
along  the  highway. 

Changes,  however,  are  bound  to  come. 
The  driver  was  promoted  to  the  railway 
division,  and  the  new  postman  had  a  horse 
of  his  own.  So  Fiddler  went  to  the  horse- 
trader,  and  from  there  to  the  Proggins 
farm.  Sadly  did  Fiddler  miss  his  friends 
on  the  mail  route.  Here  was  only  this 
glum-visaged  man  with  bristling  whiskers 
and  queer-looking  eyes.  He  neither 
[131] 


JUST    HORSES 

looked  nor  acted  friendly.  But  Fiddler 
was  bound  to  make  the  best  of  things.  In 
a  dozen  ways  he  tried  to  be  sociable.  He 
had  a  trick  of  upsetting  the  grain-meas 
ure  by  an  unexpected  lift  of  his  long  nose 
when  he  was  being  fed.  The  postman 
had  enjoyed  it  heartily,  and  every  meal 
time  they  made  quite  a  game  of  it.  But 
Proggins  rapped  him  sharply  with  a  stick 
he  carried,  and  refused  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  joke.  He  wanted  none  of 
Fiddler's  good-natured  nosings  and  plain 
ly  showed  it. 

It  was  clear,  too,  that  he  was  afraid  of 
the  horse,  approaching  head  or  heels  with 
much  caution.  Fiddler,  who  had  never 
kicked  or  used  his  teeth  on  any  one  in  all 
his  life,  came  to  enjoy  lifting  a  threaten 
ing  hoof  or  laying  back  his  ears,  just  for 
the  fun  of  seeing  Mr.  Proggins  dance  out 
of  his  way. 

[132] 


FIDDLER 

What  was  the  matter  with  the  man, 
anyway?  Fiddler  could  not  make  out. 
Then  there  remained  the  mystery  of  those 
smoked  glasses.  So  Fiddler  got  into  the 
habit  of  watching  his  master  closely  as 
long  as  he  could  keep  Proggins  within 
range  of  his  eyes.  His  were  big,  round 
eyes,  too,  deep  and  full  and  strikingly  hu 
man  in  their  expression.  Fiddler  could 
stare  out  of  them  in  such  a  questioning 
way  that  one  was  almost  moved  to  ask, 
'  Well,  old  fellow,  what's  up ;  what  do 
you  want  to  say? " 

Hi  Proggins  was  not  so  moved.  To 
him  this  stare  of  Fiddler's  was  intensely 
disconcerting.  Whenever  he  was  at  work 
about  the  barn  he  might  be  certain  that 
those  big,  round  eyes  were  following  him. 
Fiddler  would  even  crane  his  neck  to 
watch  Proggins  shake  out  the  bedding  or 
when  he  was  fastening  the  traces  behind 
[133] 


JUST   HORSES 

him.  This  Mr.  Proggins  interpreted  as 
an  evidence  that  the  horse  was  only  wait 
ing  for  a  chance  to  play  him  some  evil 
prank.  Naturally  he  grew  to  dislike  Fid 
dler  as  well  as  to  fear  him. 

Once  he  had  Fiddler  safely  harnessed 
and  had  climbed  up  on  the  wagon  out  of 
rangeof  hisblindered  eyes,Mr.Proggins's 
mind  was  at  peace.  Sitting  humped  over 
on  the  seat,  his  thoughts  dwelling  on  some 
new  obstacle  presented  by  the  intricate 
contrivance  in  his  workshop,  Proggins 
would  allow  Fiddler  to  jog  along  wholly 
unguided  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time. 

Then  it  was  that  Fiddler  tasted  happi 
ness.  Hungry  for  the  sight  of  horses  and 
men,  he  improved  each  trip  to  town  by 
giving  full  play  to  his  sociable  impulses. 
He  whinnied  friendly  greetings  to  every 
passing  team,  and  often  left  the  road  al 
together  just  to  rub  noses  with  a  pastured 
[134] 


FIDDLER 

horse.  Could  he  overtake  a  carriage,  he 
would  follow  it  doggedly,  if  possible  with 
nose  on  the  seat-back.  In  this  way  he 
frightened  several  old  ladies,  who  roused 
the  absent-minded  Proggins  from  his 
day-dreams  to  scold  him  soundly  for  his 
impertinence. 

Arrived  in  town,  it  was  Fiddler's  de 
light  to  stop  before  the  court-house  or 
town  hall  or  wherever  was  the  biggest 
crowd,  much  to  the  disgust  of  Proggins, 
who  wished  to  come  in  contact  with  as  few 
persons  as  possible. 

But  Fiddler  was  bent  on  being  sociable 
when  opportunity  offered.  Twice  he 
forced  his  way  into  funeral  processions, 
where  he  was  not  at  all  wanted.  Was 
there  a  crowd  about  a  travelling  fakir's 
wagon  in  the  market  square,  Fiddler,  if 
not  closely  watched,  would  push  into  the 
thickest  of  it.  On  one  occasion  he  fol- 
[135] 


JUST    HORSES 

lowed  a  stream  of  carriages  into  the  fair 
grounds,  and  Proggins  was  brought  to 
his  senses  by  an  indignant  ticket-collector 
who  charged  him  with  being  a  beat. 

It  was  always  Proggins  who  was 
blamed  for  intrusiveness.  No  one  ever 
seemed  to  suspect  Fiddler.  Even  Prog 
gins  himself,  unwilling  to  credit  the  horse 
with  anything  more  than  brute  instincts, 
was  not  suspicious.  He  was  puzzled,  how 
ever,  when  one  Sunday,  after  starting  for 
town  under  the  impression  that  it  was  Sat 
urday,  he  woke  from  a  brown  study  to 
find  himself  in  the  carriage  shed  of  the 
Calvary  Baptist  Church  just  as  the  morn 
ing  service  was  concluding.  Proggins, 
who  particularly  disapproved  of  churches 
and  church-going,  had  the  humiliation  of 
being  compelled  to  drive  home  in  the 
midst  of  the  Sunday  procession.  Some 
say  Fiddler  wore  a  broad  grin,  but  prob- 
[136] 


FIDDLER 

ably  it  was  nothing  more  than  his  normal 
expression. 

From  that  day,  however,  Fiddler  was 
no  longer  trusted  to  find  his  way  into 
town  and  back.  At  cost  of  much  mental 
effort  Proggins  did  the  guiding  and 
avoided  places  where  he  had  no  wish  to  go. 
Fiddler  had  to  submit,  although  he  eyed 
longingly  every  group  and  gathering. 

As  Proggins's  dislike  for  the  horse 
deepened,  he  began  to  dread  the  three 
visits  which  he  must  make  every  day  to 
Fiddler's  stall  with  feed  and  water.  The 
persistence  with  which  he  was  followed 
about  by  the  searching  stare  of  inquiry 
disturbed  and  upset  his  mind.  But  Prog- 
gins  was  not  an  inventor  for  nothing. 
Resolutely  suspending  his  tinkering  on 
the  perpetual-motion  machine,  for  nearly 
a  week  he  measured  and  hammered  and 
worked  about  the  barn.  Fiddler  watched 
[137] 


JUST    HORSES 

and  wondered,  but  he  could  make  nothing 
of  it. 

Then  one  morning  Proggins  did  not 
come  to  the  barn  at  all.  Yet  the  water- 
bucket  in  the  manger  was  mysteriously 
filled,  the  usual  two  quarts  of  grain  mirac 
ulously  appeared  without  a  sign  of  hands, 
and  a  big  forkful  of  hay  was  noiselessly 
pitched  down  from  the  loft.  At  noon  and 
again  at  night  the  phenomenon  was  re 
peated,  and  without  sight  or  sound  of 
Proggins.  Fiddler  stared  and  listened, 
but  solve  the  puzzle  he  could  not. 

Still,  considering  the  genius  of  Prog 
gins,  the  thing  was  no  great  marvel.  He 
had  simply  built  a  series  of  troughs  from 
the  pump  to  the  water-bucket,  hoisted  the 
grain-box  into  the  loft,  and  dropped  a 
chute  with  a  string-regulated  slide  into 
the  manger,  and  contrived  an  automatic 
hay- fork.  This  last,  it  must  be  admitted, 
[138] 


FIDDLER 

'  / 

was  really  a  clever  device.  The  whole 
arrangement  worked  perfectly. 

The  result  was  that  Fiddler's  isolation 
was  complete.  The  lonely  monotony  of 
stall-standing  was  now  unbroken  even  by 
the  brief  visits  of  the  unsociable  Prog- 
gins.  It  was  the  most  absolute  solitude 
which  Fiddler  had  ever  experienced.  The 
farm  was  a  lonesome  place  at  best,  and 
the  silence  that  hung  about  it  like  a  pall 
was  almost  unbroken.  In  barnyard  or 
pasture  were  no  lowing  cows,  not  a  hen 
cackled  cheerfully;  there  was  not  even  a 
dog  or  cat  about  the  place.  The  only 
sound  to  be  heard  was  the  muffled  ham 
mering  of  Proggins  in  his  distant  work 
shop. 

And  Fiddler  didn't  like  it.  He  soon  be 
came  tired  of  being  fed  and  watered  by 
machinery.  He  wanted  to  see  some  one, 
even  if  it  were  only  Proggins.  So  he  re- 
[139] 


JUST    HORSES 

volted.  He  backed  against  the  barn  door 
until  the  rusty  latch  gave  way.  Then  he 
walked  out  into  the  barn-yard  and  began 
to  hunt  for  company. 

Thus  it  was  that  Proggins,  conscious 
of  some  unusual  presence,  looked  up  from 
his  work  to  see  the  solemn  face  of  Fid 
dler  framed  in  the  open  window  and  those 
big,  curious  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  dis 
concerting  stare. 

"Get  out  of  here,  you  beast!"  Prog- 
gins  fairly  shrieked.  "  Get  out,  you  long- 
faced  son  of  Satan!"  and  he  waved  a 
hammer  threateningly.  Arming  himself 
with  a  long  pole,  he  undertook  to  drive 
Fiddler  back  into  the  stable.  But  the 
horse  was  enjoying  his  liberty  too  well  to 
go  tamely  back  into  the  hateful  stall.  A 
merry  chase  they  had  of  it,  through  the 
neglected  orchard,  about  the  weed-grown 
garden,  into  the  road,  and  back  again. 
[HO] 


FIDDLER 

Then  Proggins  had  an  inspiration.  He 
would  drive  Fiddler  down  to  the  high 
way  and  lose  him.  That  would  end  the 
business,  would  rid  him  of  this  trouble 
some  animal.  As  for  Fiddler,  he  seemed 
glad  enough  to  go,  and  Proggins  saw  him 
disappear  over  a  hill  with  a  sense  of 
thankfulness.  Two  hours  later,  however, 
a  boy  from  a  neighboring  farm  led  Fid 
dler  back  in  triumph  and  demanded  a  dol 
lar.  Proggins  grumbled,  but  paid  the  re 
ward  and  put  a  new  latch  on  the  barn 
door. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  game 
which  progressed  from  day  to  day.  Fid 
dler's  part  was  to  find  the  weak  spots  in 
the  old  barn  and  to  go  through  them. 
Proggins  undertook  to  repair  the  breaks 
and  to  thwart  new  attempts.  It  was  a 
spirited  contest. 

At  first  Proggins  tried  to  gain  an  ad- 
[141] 


JUST   HORSES 

vantage  by  putting  a  halter  on  Fiddler 
and  tying  him  to  a  stout  stanchion.  Fid 
dler  promptly  gnawed  through  the  halter 
rope  and  declined  to  allow  a  repetition  of 
the  handicap.  His  outbreaks  were  bold 
and  ingenious.  Once  he  forced  the  door 
of  the  cow-shed.  Another  time  he  backed 
through  the  side  of  the  barn,  ripping  off 
two  loosened  boards.  And  after  each  es 
cape  he  went  straight  to  the  window  of 
the  workshop,  as  if  to  taunt  the  defeated 
Proggins  and  challenge  him  to  another 
prance  through  the  orchard. 

Having  endured  this  sort  of  thing  for 
several  days,  Proggins  became  desperate. 
He  had  reached  what  he  believed  to  be 
a  critical  stage  in  his  life-work.  At  any 
moment  he  expected  to  see  the  various 
wheels  of  his  machine  start  into  endless 
motion,  and  he  was  working  with  feverish 
enthusiasm.  But  apply  himself  he  could 
[142] 


FIDDLER 

not  with  that  long,  white,  solemn  face 
leering  at  intervals  through  his  window 
and  that  disturbing  stare  following  his 
every  movement. 

'  You've  done  it  again,  have  you? "  he 
growled,  as  Fiddler  made  his  last  appear 
ance.  '  Want  to  drive  me  crazy,  don't 
you,  you  four-legged  old  Slippery  Jack? 
But  I'll  fix  you,  I'll  fix  you  this  time." 
Here  Mr.  Proggins  shook  a  futile  fist, 
while  every  wiry  hair  of  his  sandy  whisk 
ers  bristled  with  anger.  "I'll  fasten  you 
up  now,  you  blamed  old  white  hoodoo,  so 
you  can't  get  out.  I'll  do  it  if  I  have  to 
build  the  whole  darned  barn  over  with 
walls  a  foot  thick." 

With  this  threat  Mr.  Proggins  impetu 
ously  grabbed  his  hat  and  started  on  foot 
for  the  nearest  sawmill  to  order  a  load  of 
lumber. 

Reproachfully    Fiddler    watched    the 
[143] 


JUST   HORSES 

bent  form  of  Proggins  dash  down  to 
wards  the  County  House  Road.  Then 
he  stuck  his  long  head  into  the  open  door 
of  the  workshop  and  sniffed  curiously 
about.  Next  to  the  window  was  a  car 
penter's  bench  littered  with  tools  and 
shavings  and  odd  pieces  of  machinery. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  door  was  a  hand- 
forge,  a  coffee-pot,  and  a  frying-pan 
resting  on  the  gray  coals. 

The  rest  of  the  room  was  largely  occu 
pied  by  a  huge,  flimsy-looking  affair  that 
suggested  the  combination  of  a  grand 
father's  clock  with  a  threshing-machine. 
It  had  wheels  and  weights  and  arms  and 
levers  and  ropes  and  springs  and  pulleys. 
Such  a  contraption  Fiddler  had  never 
seen  before,  and  it  attracted  him.  Cau 
tiously  he  approached  the  thing,  stepping 
carefully  over  the  creaking  floor  boards, 
his  neck  stretched  out,  ears  pricked  for- 
[  144] 


FIDDLER 

ward,  nostrils  expanding  and  contracting, 
and  pendant  upper  lip  working  tenta 
tively. 

All  might  have  ended  well  and  no  mis 
chief  done  had  not  Fiddler  planted  one 
of  his  hind  feet  on  a  saw.  The  thin  steel 
snapped  with  a  sharp  report.  Fiddler 
snorted  in  alarm  and  jerked  upwards  his 
long  nose,  striking  a  projecting  lever. 
There  ensued  a  whirring  of  wheels,  a 
creaking  of  pulleys,  a  confused  buzz  of 
cogs.  The  thing  was  alive,  then?  It  was 
some  monstrous  insect! 

Fiddler  reared  in  fright.  His  head 
struck  the  ceiling,  and  down  he  came  with 
a  grand  crash.  The  machine  toppled  to 
wards  him,  and  the  next  that  he  knew  he 
was  hopelessly  mixed  up  in  the  thing.  So 
he  went  plunging  madly  about,  his 
legs  twined  and  tangled  with  ropes 
and  springs,  his  iron-shod  hoofs  smash- 
[145] 


JUST   HORSES 

ing  and  bending  parts  at  every  jump. 

This  is  how  it  really  happened.  Mr. 
Proggins's  theory  that  Fiddler  deliber 
ately  attacked  the  machine  with  malicious 
intent  is  wholly  absurd.  Yet  he  thoroughly 
believed  it  at  the  time.  Perhaps  he  does  still. 
It  is  true  that  when  he  returned  at  the  end 
of  half  an  hour,  having  determined  to 
make  Fiddler  haul  the  lumber  for  his  own 
undoing,  he  found  the  old  white  horse 
dancing  frantically  on  the  ruin  of  the 
wrecked  machine. 

"  I've  had  a  mighty  lot  of  hard  luck  in 
my  day,"  said  Proggins,  "  but  I  guess 
that  was  about  the  hardest  knock  I  ever 
got.  I  was  more  scared  than  mad,  though 
I'm  not  superstitious;  but  if  ever  a  horse 
was  possessed  of  the  devil  it  was  that  old 
Fiddler.  I  don't  want  to  see  anything 
like  it  again.  Heard  folks  tell  about  their 
blood  running  cold,  haven't  you?  Well, 
[146] 


FIDDLER 

mine  did  when  I  saw  the  antics  of  that 
four-legged  demon.  And  that  grin  of 
his !  His  jaws  were  shut  tight,  but  his  lips 
were  drawn  up  until  you  could  see  his 
teeth  way  back  to  his  ears. 

"  But  his  eyes  were  the  worst.  They 
just  blazed  with  deviltry.  He  had  that 
coffin-shaped  head  of  his  up  in  the  air, 
and  he  was  switching  his  old  white  tail 
and  rampaging  about  that  shop  as  though 
he  meant  to  make  match-wood  of  the 
whole  business — which  he  come  pretty 
near  doing. 

"  I  couldn't  swear  and  I  couldn't  cry, 
though  I  wanted  to  do  both  at  once.  I 
just  stood  there  with  my  eyes  sticking  out 
and  my  hair  standing  up  until,  all  of  a 
sudden,  he  looks  up  and  sees  me.  Then 
he  charged  through  the  door  at  me  like  a 
setter  going  after  a  rabbit.  I  yelled  and 
made  a  dive  for  the  old  smoke-house.  As 
[147] 


JUST   HORSES 

I  jumped  in  I  slammed  the  door  after  me 
and  climbed  up  on  the  top  beams. 

"  Guess  I  must  have  roosted  there 
nearly  three  hours  before  I  dared  to  come 
down.  I  heard  Fiddler  stamping  in  his 
stall  as  he  used  to  when  he  wanted  his 
feed.  I  tiptoed  out  until  I  could  get  hold 
of  the  grain-box  string,  and  I  pulled  that 
two  or  three  times.  The  grain  quieted 
him,  and  while  he  was  eating  I  slipped 
around  and  shut  the  barn  door,  bracing  it 
with  half  a  dozen  fence  rails.  Then  I 
walked  over  and  took  the  night  train  to 
the  city,  where  I  hunted  up  a  man  who 
makes  a  business  of  training  vicious 
horses.  I  paid  him  twenty-five  dollars  to 
come  out  and  take  Fiddler  away.  And 
what  do  you  think?  That  contrary  old 
beast  whinnied  as  if  he  was  glad  to  see  us, 
and  followed  the  man  off  as  meekly  as  a 
mooley  cow.  Blast  his  old  white  hide!  " 
[148] 


FIDDLER 

Curiously  enough,  the  smashing  of  the 
perpetual-motion  machine  proved  to  be 
the  making  of  Proggins.  Quite  too  dis 
couraged  to  begin  a  new  one,  he  aban 
doned  the  whole  scheme  and  out  of  sheer 
irony  applied  his  genius  to  the  fashioning 
of  a  patent  stopper  for  tomato-ketchup 
bottles.  In  less  than  six  months  he  had 
more  money  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with. 

Nor  did  Fiddler  pass  into  oblivion.  Far 
from  it.  Some  time  or  other  you  will 
probably  arrive  at  one  of  the  great  rail 
road  terminals  in  Jersey  City.  Should 
you  chance  to  hit  upon  the  right  one,  you 
may  see,  moving  with  leisurely  steps  and 
solemn  dignity  through  the  inbound  and 
outgoing  throngs,  an  old  white  horse  with 
an  abnormally  long  head. 

It  will  be  Fiddler.  His  business  is  to 
haul  baggage-vans  back  and  forth  along 
the  platforms.  Surely,  you  will  say,  he 
[149] 


JUST    HORSES 

cannot  lack  for  society.  Nor  does  he. 
Every  hour  of  the  day  folks  are  shunted 
in  from  the  far  corners  of  the  world  to 
meet  him.  Men  from  all  lands  brush  his 
flanks  and  carry  away  on  their  coat 
sleeves  white  hairs  from  his  sleek  quar 
ters. 

And  Fiddler  appears  to  enjoy  it  all  im 
mensely.  On  his  solemn  old  white  face 
sits  contentment.  In  the  midst  of  train- 
shed  riot  he  is  thoroughly  at  home.  You 
may  see  him  stand  serene  and  tranquil  as 
a  big  six-driver  camel-back  dragging  the 
Chicago  Limited  slows  down  with  a 
screech  of  brake-shoes  from  its  mile-a- 
minute  run  and  comes  to  a  hard-breath 
ing  stop  not  ten  inches  from  his  nose. 

"Hello,  old  Whitey!"  the  engineer 
will  sing  out,  leaning  from  his  cab  to 
smooth  Fiddler's  ears.  ''  We're  back 
again,  you  see." 

[150] 


FIDDLER 

Perhaps  no  mere  traveller  was  ever 
more  surprised  at  meeting  Fiddler  on  the 
station  platform  than  the  occupant  of  a 
Pullman  section  who  alighted  one  day 
from  the  Washington  express.  The  col 
ored  porter  who  followed  him  with  his 
hand-baggage  seemed  to  think  him  a  per 
sonage,  but  you  or  I  would  have  needed 
but  one  glance  at  those  smoked  glasses 
and  sandy  whiskers  before  exclaiming, 
"Proggins!" 

The  first  sight  of  Fiddler  made  him 
gasp;  and  no  wonder,  for  as  he  stepped 
from  the  train  he  found  himself  con 
fronted  with  that  unforgettable  white 
face.  Under  his  whiskers  Proggins 
turned  pale,  and  had  it  not  been  for  peril 
ling  the  deep  respect  which  his  dollar  tip 
had  evoked  from  the  porter  he  would  have 
climbed  back  into  the  car  and  shut  the 
door.  Edging  around  Fiddler  and  well 


JUST    HORSES 

to  the  rear,  Proggins  addressed  the  man 
in  charge  of  the  baggage-van. 

"  Nice  horse  you  have  there,  eh?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  he's  all  right,  old  Fiddler  is. 
And  knowin' —  Say,  he  knows  more'n 
lots  of  people,  he  does." 

'  Yes,"  assented  Proggins,  "  I  should 
judge  so." 

As  he  moved  down  the  piatform  to 
ward  the  ferry-boat,  Mr.  Hiram  Prog 
gins  turned  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  old 
horse.  Fiddler,  too,  had  swung  about  and 
presented  his  profile.  It  wore  a  sardonic 
grin.  And  Proggins,  who  had  learned 
how,  grinned  responsively. 


[152] 


THE   STRAYING   OF 
LUCIFER 

IT  was  not  that  Lucifer  meant  to  in 
trude.  A  better-mannered  horse  you 
never  knew.  But  when  one  has  been  tied 
in  the  woods  for  many  hours  one  comes  to 
wrant  water  very  much  indeed,  and  then, 
if  one  breaks  a  halter  and  goes  seeking  a 
drink,  quite  naturally  he  is  liable  to  over 
look  some  of  the  little  niceties  of  behavior. 
Lucifer  did.  There  happened  to  be  a 
door  between  him  and  the  water  which  he 
could  sniff  so  plainly.  The  door  was 
latched,  too,  but  this  troubled  him  only  for 
a  moment.  He  was  trying  it  with  his 
nose,  finding  out  how  the  thing  worked, 
when  someone  inside  called  sharply: 
[155] 


JUST   HORSES 

"  Come  in,  come  in!  "  Just  then  Lucifer 
hit  upon  the  combination,  lifted  the  little 
iron  finger-piece,  pushed  with  his  head 
and  answered  the  invitation  by  squeezing 
himself  through  the  narrow  doorway. 
•  Possibly  the  sharp-faced,  angular  old 
woman  who  sat  at  the  window  shelling 
peas  was  unprepared  for  such  a  visitor. 
Yet  she  needn't  have  screamed  so.  Luci 
fer  didn't  bite  or  kick,  save  under  extreme 
provocation,  and  his  bearing  was  most 
friendly.  She  ought  to  have  known  that 
by  the  way  he  held  his  ears.  But  she 
waved  her  apron  at  him  and  shrieked 
piercingly. 

Lucifer,  however,  was  thirsty,  and  there 
on  the  bench  was  the  water-bucket.  Mere 
ly  glancing  at  the  old  woman,  he  walked 
over  and  plunged  his  muzzle  into  the 
clear,  cool  well  water.  Didn't  it  taste 
good,  though! 

[156] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

Not  until  he  had  touched  bottom  did  he 
look  up.  A  girl  had  come  in;  a  tall,  slim 
girl,  who  wore  a  checked  apron  and  a  long 
braid  of  brick-red  hair  that  hung  down  her 
back.  She  was  talking  soothingly  to  the 
old  woman. 

"  He  won't  hurt  you,  Aunt  'Phemie. 
He  was  thirsty,  that's  all.  But,  oh,  isn't 
he  a  beauty!  Isn't  he,  Auntie?  " 

Now  this  was  sensible.  Perhaps  Luci 
fer  did  not  catch  the  full  meaning  of  the 
words,  but  he  liked  the  tones  of  the  girl's 
voice.  They  were  low,  calm,  pleasant 
tones  with  no  fear  in  them.  This  much 
he  understood  very  well. 

And  Lucifer  was  a  beauty,  to  be  sure. 
His  coat  was  a  pure,  snowy,  dazzling 
white  with  a  kind  of  satiny  sheen  to  it. 
From  his  plume-like  forelock,  that  rip 
pled  half  way  down  to  his  nose,  to  the  end 
of  the  silky  tail  falling  almost  to  his  heels, 
[157] 


JUST    HORSES 

there  was  not  spot  or  fleck  of  color.  There 
were  sixteen  hundred  pounds  of  him,  too ; 
not  mere  bulk,  for  most  of  it  was  supple, 
closely  packed  muscle  under  perfect  con 
trol. 

Of  all  these  things  Lucifer  had  knowl 
edge,  in  his  own  way — one  could  see  that 
by  the  way  he  carried  himself:  but  it  did 
not  prevent  him  from  appreciating  the 
good  points  of  others.  Hence  he  eyed  the 
girl  approvingly  and  stood  quite  still, 
gazing  about  the  room.  In  all  his  some 
what  varied  career  he  had  never  before 
been  in  a  farm-house  kitchen. 

"Shoo,  shoo!"  exploded  the  old 
woman. 

"Oh,  Auntie,  don't!  Let's  see  what 
he'll  do.  Does  the  nice  horsey  want  a 
radish?  Does  urns? " 

Now,  as  everyone  knowrs,  babies  and  all 
animals  understand  that  sort  of  talk  per- 
[158] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

fectly.  Lucifer  made  his  best  bow  to  the 
red-haired  girl  and  went  through  the  mo 
tion  of  pawing  with  one  foreleg. 

"Did  you  see,  Auntie?  Did  you  see 
him  beg?  Well,  urns  shall  have  a  radish, 
so  urns  shall! " 

And  in  spite  of  the  old  woman's  pro 
tests  the  girl  held  out  one  of  the  red-and- 
white  things  to  him.  Stepping  gingerly 
across  the  creaking  floor  boards,  Lucifer 
picked  it  from  her  palm  in  his  daintiest 
fashion.  It  tasted  good,  so  he  begged  for 
more,  and  got  them.  Then  he  was  fed  a 
lot  of  peapods  in  a  basin. 

"  Now,  sir,  we'll  have  to  go  outdoors. 
Auntie's  afraid  of  you,"  said  the  girl  at 
last,  fearlessly  taking  him  by  the  fore 
lock  and  leading  the  way.  Meekly  Luci 
fer  followed,  and  the  two  tramped  out 
into  the  back-yard,  to  the  great  relief  of 
Aunt  Euphemia  Penny,  who  regarded 
[159] 


JUST   HORSES 

Lucifer's  unheralded  appearance  before 
her  as  a  thrilling  and  mysterious  event.  It 
was  unusual. 

'  Where  on  earth  did  the  beast  come 
from,  Jerry? "  As  if  Mrs.  Penny 
thought  that  Jerry — her  real  name  was 
Geraldine,  you  know — could  answer.  Yet 
Jerry  did  think  she  knew. 

"  Aunt  'Phemie  would  scold  me  if  I 
told  her,"  reflected  Jerry,  "  or  perhaps 
send  me  to  bed  without  supper,  but  I  be 
lieve  I  just  wished  him  here.  Don't  I  al 
ways  say:— 

'  Star  light,  star  bright, 
First  star  I've  seen  to-night, 
I  wish  I  may,  I  wish  I  might, 
Have  the  wish  I  wish  to-night  ? ' 

And  haven't  I  always  wished  for  a  horse? 
But  I  never  dreamed  I'd  get  such  a  lovely 
one  as  you.  Oh,  you  great,  white  dar 
ling!" 

[160] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

Then  Miss  Jerry  would  reach  up  on 
tip-toes  and  put  her  slim  arms  about  Luci 
fer's  big,  sleek  neck  and  lay  her  red  hair 
and  soft,  freckled  cheek  against  his  white 
nose. 

From  the  first  Lucifer  liked  it,  al 
though  never  before  had  he  made  friends 
with  any  wearer  of  skirts.  They  were  so 
apt  to  giggle  or  scream,  and  either  pro 
ceeding  is  jarring  to  sensitive  nerves.  But 
this  red-haired  girl  did  nothing  of  the 
sort.  She  was  quiet  and  gentle,  but  whol 
ly  unafraid.  Best  of  all,  she  seemed  to 
understand  him  thoroughly,  and  he  had 
known  but  few  men  of  whom  as  much 
could  be  said. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Miss  Jerry, 
though,  life  on  the  Penny  farm  would 
have  been  dull,  indeed.  The  old  barn  had 
no  other  occupants  than  himself,  unless 
you  counted  the  hens  which  cackled  in  the 
[161] 


JUST    HORSES 

mows  or  the  swallows  darting  among  the 
roof  beams.  In  the  fields  back  of  the  barn 
was  not  even  a  cow. 

But  Miss  Jerry  proved  to  be  company 
enough.  Never  had  Lucifer  found  any 
one  who  had  a  keener  appreciation  for  his 
talents.  At  first,  to  be  sure,  she  did  not 
know  how  to  play  her  part,  but  little  by 
little  she  learned.  How  cleverly,  for  in 
stance,  did  she  pick  up  the  handkerchief 
trick  after  Lucifer  had  dropped  a  hint  or 
two.  She  had  led  him  into  the  barnyard 
and  turned  him  loose.  At  once  Lucifer 
began  the  three-legged  trot. 

'  Why,  you  beauty,  you're  lame,  aren't 
you?" 

That  was  exactly  what  she  should  have 
said,  of  course.  The  next  thing  to  do  was 
to  limp  up  to  her  and  hold  out  the  stiff 
foreleg.  There,  however,  Jerry  wras  at  a 
loss  how  to  proceed  until  he  took  one  of 
[162] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

her  sunbonnet-strings  in  his  teethi  and 
tugged  at  it. 

"  Shall  I  bind  up  the  poor  leg?  Is 
that  it?" 

It  was,  although  Lucifer  could  only 
look  sorrowful.  But,  as  you  have  seen, 
Miss  Jerry  was  a  peculiarly  gifted  young 
person.  Off  came  the  bonnet-string  with 
a  rip  and  around  the  foreleg  it  went. 
Having  bowed  his  thanks  Lucifer  can 
tered  around  the  barnyard  to  show  how 
complete  was  the  cure. 

How  she  did  laugh  at  that  and  clap 
her  hands!  From  then  on  she  seemed  to 
understand  the  game  perfectly,  even  to 
the  giving  of  mock  scoldings  when  he 
would  pull  the  bandage  off  with  his  teeth 
and  trot  humbly  back  to  her,  the  bonnet- 
string  dangling  from  his  mouth. 

:' Isn't  he  wonderful,  Auntie!"  Miss 
Jerry  would  exclaim.  :'  Where  do  you 
[163] 


JUST   HORSES 

suppose  he  ever  learned  so  much?" 
:'  It's  all  very  fine,"  retorted  Aunt 
'Phemie,  "  but  when  he's  eat  up  all  that 
hay,  where's  more  to  come  from?  An' 
who's  to  pay  for  that  bag  of  oats?  Who 
does  he  belong  to,  an'  why  don't  they  come 
and  git  him,  that's  what  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

"  I  hope  he  doesn't  belong  to  anybody 
but  just  me.  I  know  he  don't  want  to," 
declared  Miss  Jerry.  "  And  as  for  buy 
ing  his  oats,  I  can  do  that  by  selling  some 
of  my  chickens.  I'd  rather  have  him  than 
anjrthing  else  in  the  world." 

Not  until  he  had  thrown  her  once  or 
twice  did  Lucifer  learn  that  Miss  Jerry 
could  not  stay  on  his  back  unless  he  went 
very  carefully.  But  it  was  only  a  matter 
of  two  or  three  weeks  before  she  got  the 
knack.  Then  what  fun  they  did  have 
tearing  about  the  fields,  Lucifer  with  his 
[164] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

head  up,  ears  forward,  nostrils  wide ;  Miss 
Jerry  clinging  to  his  long  mane  and  ut 
tering  wild  little  cries  of  delight.  When 
he  was  quite  sure  of  her  he  began  teaching 
her  how  to  take  jumps;  low  ones  first,  over 
narrow  ditches  and  broken  fences,  higher 
and  longer  ones  later,  until  she  was  per 
fect  in  the  art. 

Those  were  the  finest  runs  Lucifer  had 
ever  known,  for,  with  no  bits  in  his  mouth 
to  bother  him,  no  tugging  of  his  head  this 
way  or  that,  he  was  the  real  master  of  the 
sport.  Early  in  the  morning,  sometimes 
before  the  sun  got  up,  was  the  time  when 
she  came  out  to  join  him  in  these  wild, 
free  gallops.  It  was  then,  too,  that  he 
was  keenest  for  a  run.  He  did  not  know, 
of  course,  why  it  was  that  Miss  Jerry 
would  ride  at  no  other  time,  or  why  she 
stole  down  before  Aunt  'Phemie  was 
awake,  to  don  in  the  barn  a  pair  of  loose- 
[165] 


JUST    HORSES 

fitting  overalls  which  she  had  walked  five 
miles  to  buy  for  this  purpose.  Lucifer 
only  knew  that  Miss  Jerry  was  fast  learn 
ing  to  be  the  best  rider  he  had  ever  carried 
on  his  back,  and  that  she  was  the  most 
companionable  human  he  had  ever  known. 

So  Lucifer  was  content,  and  the  Sum 
mer  waxed  and  waned  joyously. 

Miss  Jerry,  however,  was  not  so  easily 
satisfied.  She,  too,  had  known  other 
things  than  the  quiet  humdrum  of  the 
Penny  farm.  The  memories  were  rather 
vague,  for  they  were  of  early  childhood, 
but  once  she  had  lived  among  different 
scenes.  There  had  been  great  tents  and 
many  horses  and  wagons.  Her  mama  was 
with  her  then,  a  beautiful  creature,  all 
pink-and-white,  whom  she  sometimes  saw 
in  a  spangled  dress  with  short  fluffy 
skirts.  And  they  were  always  going 
somewhere.  She  remembered  waking  in 
[166] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

the  night  and  peering  out  through  curtains 
to  see  the  black  trees  go  by,  always  the 
black  trees,  with  the  bright  stars  overhead 
and  the  noise  of  hoof -falls  and  creaking 
axles  to  lull  her  to  sleep  again. 

She  could  recall  glimpses  into  the  big 
tents  where  many  lights  burned  high  in 
the  air,  where  people  shouted  and  wiiips 
cracked  and  horses  pranced  around  a  yel 
low  ring.  A  big  man  with  a  prickly  black 
moustache  had  held  her  in  his  arms  and 
said:  "  See,  little  one,  see  mama  on  the 
pretty  horse!"  Whereupon  she  had 
looked,  then  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes 
and  cried;  for  there  were,  oh,  so  many, 
many  people  out  there  and  the  lights  were 
so  bright  and  the  horses  danced  about  so, 
and  she  was  afraid  that  something  would 
happen  to  her  beautiful  mama. 

In  the  end,  too,  something  did  happen. 
At  least,  she  went  to  sleep  one  night  and 
[167] 


JUST    HORSES 

in  the  morning  her  mama  was  not  with 
her,  and  the  man  with  the  prickly  mous 
tache  cried  as  he  kissed  her  and  gave  her 
to  a  strange  woman,  who  took  her  to 
Aunt  Euphemia,  with  whom  she  had  been 
ever  since. 

This  was  all  she  knew  about  that  other 
life,  or  was  ever  likely  to  learn,  for  Aunt 
'Phemie  would  tell  her  nothing. 

"  The  less  you  know  about  it  the  bet 
ter,"  she  had  once  replied. 

As  she  grew  up  into  a  tall,  slender  girl 
she  developed  one  passion,  and  that  was 
for  horses.  Hour  after  hour  she  would 
stand  at  the  front  gate  watching  for  them 
to  go  by.  Most  of  them  were  farm- 
horses,  staid,  sober-eyed  plodders  weary 
with  hard  work.  These  she  pitied.  Occa 
sionally  a  trotter  in  a  gig  passed  and  she 
stared  admiringly.  But  a  saddle-horse 
roused  her  enthusiasm  as  did  nothing  else. 
[168] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

Some  of  the  riders  must  have  thought  her 
crazy,  the  red-haired  girl  with  the  blue 
eyes,  who  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands 
as  they  cantered  by. 

Then  the  big  white  horse  had  come  so 
mysteriously,  to  the  delight  of  her  very 
soul. 

Perhaps  you  will  understand  now  why 
it  was  that  Miss  Jerry  got  into  her  head 
the  very  queer  notion  which  she  put  into 
practice  one  night  late  in  September.  For 
weeks  she  had  planned  it.  On  two  even 
ings  she  had  stolen  downstairs  after  Aunt 
'Phemie  had  gone  to  bed.  But  at  the  last 
moment  her  courage  had  failed  her  and 
she  had  crept  back  to  her  room.  The  third 
time  she  had  shut  her  lips  tightly  and  said 
to  herself,  "  I  will  do  it,  I  will." 

Lucifer  was  just  taking  his  second  af 
ter-supper  nap  when  she  roused  him  by 
coming  into  the  stable.  Sleepily  he 
[169] 


JUST   HORSES 

watched  her  as  she  stood  in  the  patch  of 
moonlight  that  fell  through  the  open 
door.  She  had  her  red  hair  fastened  atop 
her  head  under  an  old  slouch  hat  and  she 
was  putting  on  the  loose  overalls.  Then 
Lucifer  understood  that  there  were  pros 
pects  of  a  gallop. 

But  this  time,  instead  of  taking  him 
out  into  the  fields,  she  led  him  quietly 
past  the  house  and  through  the  front 
gate,  making  him  keep  on  the  grass  until 
they  were  in  the  road. 

"  Now,  my  beauty,"  she  whispered 
tensely  in  his  ear,  "  we'll  go  to  town  and 
show  them  how  to  ride;  won't  we,  eh?  " 

Go  to  town  they  did.  Lucifer  saw  the 
lights  in  the  distance  and  made  for  them 
willingly.  He  rejoiced  to  feel  again  the 
hard  road  under  him,  to  hear  his  hoofs 
beat  out  the  quick,  blood-stirring  k'lar- 
rup!  k'larrup!  k'larrup!  of  his  running 
[170] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

song.  He  threw  up  his  head,  snorted 
gleefully  and  struck  into  a  long,  swing 
ing  lope  that  laid  the  stretches  of  high 
way  behind  him  in  fine  style.  On  his  back, 
riding  as  lightly  as  a  cork  on  a  wave- 
crest,  Miss  Jerry  cooed  tenderly  to  him, 
now  and  then  guiding  him  to  the  right  or 
left  by  a  pat  on  his  neck,  as  she  had  long 
since  learned  how  to  do. 

It  was  great  fun.  They  could  watch 
the  folks  run  to  their  windows  and  peer 
out  into  the  moonlight  to  see  who  rode  at 
such  a  pace.  Nor  was  the  speed  checked 
when  they  reached  the  broad  main  street 
of  the  town,  where  the  houses  sat  snugly 
behind  their  little  squares  of  green,  where 
there  were  street  lights  and  carriages  and 
boys  and  girls  who  laughed  on  the  side 
walks.  Many  eyes  stared  after  the  big 
white  horse  and  his  boyish  rider  as  they 
clattered  recklessly  on. 
[171] 


JUST   HORSES 

Sure  enough,  Miss  Jerry  was  showing 
the  town  folks  how  to  ride.  There  it 
might  have  ended  and  no  harm  done 
but  for  an  incident  on  which  she  had  not 
counted.  How  was  she  to  know  that  they 
were  to  meet  the  town's  brass  band  es 
corting  home  the  fire  department  from  a 
country  muster?  That  is  precisely  what 
happened.  Turning  a  corner,  they  ran 
almost  full  tilt  into  the  head  of  the  pro 
cession.  Just  at  that  moment,  too,  the 
rat-tat-rat,  tat,  tat!  marching  tap  of  the 
snare-drum  was  changed  to  a  full-vol- 
umed  blare  as  the  brasses  brayed  out: 

"  When-you-hear  the  bells  go  ding-ling- 
ling, 
Bow-down-low,    and    sweetly    we    will 

sing. 
And   when-the-verse   am   through,    the 

chorus  all  join  in; 

There'll  be  a  hot  time  in  the  old  town  to 
night, 

Mah  Ba-a-a-by!" 

[172] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

Miss  Jerry  should  have  fainted,  or 
gone  into  hysterics,  at  least.  But  she 
didn't.  She  simply  cast  one  startled,  fright 
ened  glance  at  the  band,  at  the  lines  of  scar- 
let-shirted  firemen,  at  the  crowded  street 
beyond.  Then  she  drew  in  her  breath  with 
a  quick  little  gasp,  shut  her  lips  very 
tight,  pressed  her  knees  into  Lucifer's 
quivering  shoulders,  twisted  her  left  hand 
into  the  strands  of  his  mane  and  struck 
him  smartly  on  the  neck  with  her  right. 

But  Lucifer  needed  no  guiding  then. 
What,  with  a  band  playing  "  A  Hot 
Time"  almost  under  his  nose!  Not  he. 
Why  that  was  his  tune,  his — the  one 
they  always  played  him  on  wdth.  For 
getting  his  rider,  forgetting  everything 
save  that  the  swinging  music  was  throb 
bing  in  his  head  and  sending  little  thrills 
clear  down  to  his  rudimentary  toes,  Luci 
fer  reared  his  great  bulk  until  his  fore- 
[173] 


JUST    HORSES 

hoofs  topped  the  six-foot  band-leader's 
bearskin  by  many  inches,  pivoted  grand 
ly  about  on  bent  haunches,  came  down 
with  a  stamp  that  made  the  sparks  fly 
from  the  macadam,  swayed  his  head  once 
or  twice  until  he  got  the  time,  and  then, 
neck  arched,  head  tossing,  forelegs  paw 
ing,  tail  waving  like  a  silken  banner  and 
every  motion  perfectly  attuned  to  the 
throbbing  metre  of  the  quickstep,  he 
pranced  and  curvetted  up  the  street  at  the 
head  of  the  column. 

For  a  moment,  when  the  firemen  and 
spectators  saw  the  slim  figure  perched  on 
the  back  of  the  great  white  horse,  with 
neither  saddle-pommel  nor  bridle-rein  to 
cling  to,  they  held  their  breath  and  pre 
pared  to  view  disaster.  One  or  two  ran 
forward  to  catch  the  rider  as  Lucifer 
whirled  himself  about. 

But  there  was  no  disaster.  They  saw 
[174] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

the  set  lips  relax  into  a  smile  of  pure  de 
light,  saw  a  slender  hand  snatch  off  the 
slouch  hat  and  wave  it,  saw  a  mass  of 
brick-red  hair  tumble  over  the  blue-and- 
white  checked  blouse — and  that  was  quite 
enough  to  make  them  stare  and  keep  their 
mouths  agape. 

There  were  cheers  and  shoutings.  Red 
fire  was  burned  and  Roman  candles  sput 
tered  sparks  about  them,  for  the  friends 
of  the  firemen  had  planned  to  do  the  thing 
in  style.  Miss  Jerry  heeded  not,  for  she 
had  wholly  and  utterly  abandoned  herself 
to  the  charm  of  motion  and  music,  her 
lithe  figure  swaying  in  graceful  unison 
with  every  movement  of  the  big  horse. 

And  what  did  Lucifer  care  for  noise 
or  fireworks?  Frighten  him!  Evidently 
you  didn't  know  Lucifer.  No,  there  was 
but  one  person  in  all  that  crowd  who  had 
the  least  idea  as  to  where  this  splendid 
[175] 


JUST    HORSES 

white  horse  might  have  appeared  from. 
This  individual  was  a  short,  stockily  built, 
seedily  dressed  man  who  ran  along  the 
curb,  apparently  more  excited  than  the 
shouting  small  boys  who  ran  with  him. 

"  It's  him!  It's  him!  "  he  cried  at  in 
tervals.  No  one  disputed  the  statement. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  no  one  heard.  But 
when  at  last  the  band  ceased  and  the  big 
horse  with  its  rider  wheeled  into  a  side 
street  and  slipped  away  from  the  crowd, 
the  seedy  man  was  close  behind,  following 
silently  on  a  bicycle  contributed  unwil 
lingly  by  an  astonished  youth.  Even  Miss 
Jerry  was  not  aware  of  his  presence  as 
she  slid  off  Lucifer's  back  at  the  Penny 
front  gate. 

It  had  "been  a  wild  prank,  to  be  sure. 
She  supposed  she  ought  to  feel  fright 
ened  and  sorry.  But,  oh,  it  had  been  glo 
rious!  The  tumult  of  it  still  raced  in  her 
[176] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

veins.  She  knew  that  she  only  hoped  that 
sometime  it  might  be  done  all  over  again. 
Meanwhile  the  seedy  man  was  busy. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  a 
badly  written,  wonderfully  spelled  letter 
reached  Professor  T.  Caleb  Norton,  Pro 
prietor  and  Manager  of  The  Colossal 
Equine  Paragon  Company.  And  when 
the  Professor  had  puzzled  it  all  out  he 
was  most  extravagantly  pleased. 

" Ime  Buckle  Slater"  the  epistle  be 
gan.  "  line  the  osslur  you  fired  lass  spring. 
It  was  me  tuck  loosifur  cos  i  was  mad  but 
he  got  away  an  i  loss  trak  of  him  til  jess 
now.  Now  i  kno  ware  loosifur  is  safe  an 
sound.  I  doant  want  no  reward  if  you 
doant  want  to  jug  me  fer  oss  stealin.  All 
i  want  is  to  be  tuck  bak  with  loosifur  an 
cal  it  skware.  Duz  it  go. 

BUCKIE  SLATER." 

"  Does  it? "  asked  the  Professor  of  the 
empty  air.     "I  guess  yes!     Why,  that 
rascally  Buckie  is  the  best  hostler  in  the 
[177] 


JUST    HORSES 

bunch,  and  if  he  wa'n't,  just  to  get  hold 
of  Lucifer  once  more  I'd  hire  the  Old 
Boy  himself.  Besides,  there's  a  matter 
of  a  five  thousand  dollar  reward  that 
needn't  trouble  me  any  more.  I'll  go 
after  them  myself." 

Forty-eight  hours  later  there  was  a 
touching  reunion  between  two  men.  One 
was  a  big,  grizzly  moustached  personage 
who  wore  in  his  wide  striped  shirt-front  a 
diamond  cluster  about  the  size  of  a  door 
knob.  This  was  Professor  T.  Caleb  Nor 
ton.  The  other  was  a  chunky,  seedy- 
looking  individual  the  Professor  called 
"  Buckie."  When  there  had  been  full 
confession  and  free  forgiveness  the  Pro 
fessor  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  other  busi 
ness. 

"  No  good  going  out  there  to-night," 
protested  Buckie.  '  You  got  to  stay  over, 
anyways.  In  the  mornin'  we'll  slip  out 
[178] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

before  sunup  an'  I'll  show  you  suthin' 
worth  seein'." 

Being  more  or  less  persistent  Buckle 
carried  the  day.  Also  his  programme  was 
followed,  even  to  hiding  themselves  in  an 
old  cow-shelter  on  a  knoll  commanding  a 
good  view  of  the  untilled  Penny  acres. 
It  was  as  much  as  Buckie  could  do,  how 
ever,  to  prevent  the  Professor  from  spoil 
ing  everything  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight 
of  Lucifer. 

"Wait,  Professor;  just  you  wait  and 
see  her  ride." 

"Huh!  Who  couldn't  ride,"  snorted 
the  Professor,  "  with  the  best-trained 
horse  in  America  under  'em?  " 

"  That's  all  right,  but  wait,  I  says.  See, 
she  goes  it  bareback  with  not  even  a  hal 
ter  strap  on  his  nose.  Look  at  there! 
Talk  about  yer  lady  equestriennes!  Ever 
see  one  sit  a  boss  like  that  afore?  Now 
[179] 


they're  off  fer  keeps.  Ain't  that  a  pace, 
though?  Now  watch  'em  take  that  fence! 
Whoop-e-e-e!  How's  that  fer  hurdlin', 
eh,  Professor? " 

But  the  Professor's  eyes  were  glued  to 
the  small  end  of  a  pair  of  field-glasses. 
Only  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  door 
knob  cluster  on  his  striped  shirt-front  be 
trayed  his  emotion.  At  length  he  de 
manded:  "  Say,  Buckie,  who  in  Sam 
Hill's  the  girl  that  can  ride  like  that,  and 
where'd  she  learn?  "  Buckie  chuckled. 

"  Learn !  She  didn't  have  to  learn. 
Remember  Clara  Du  Courcey,  that  used 
to  ride  fer  old  John  Robinson?  " 

It  was  very  unexpected,  extremely 
abrupt.  Mr.  Buckie  Slater  could  not 
imagine  what  had  happened  when  he 
found  the  big  fingers  of  the  Professor 
gripping  him  by  the  throat. 

"  What  d'ye  mean,  you  pie-faced  little 
[180] 


THE  STRAYING  OF  LUCIFER 

runt?"  the  Professor  was  roaring  at 
him. 

« i_i_i_that's  her  girl,"  spluttered 
the  unhappy  Buckle. 

"Not  little  Jerry!  Is  it?  By  thunder, 
I  believe  it  must  be!  Bless  her,  she  rides 
like  it  don't  she?" 

This  happened  some  seasons  ago,  but 
The  Colossal  Equine  Paragon  Company, 
"  bigger  and  better  than  ever,"  if  you  be 
lieve  the  four-sheet  posters,  is  still  on  the 
road.  It  has  a  Wild  West  feature  and  a 
squad  of  "  genuine  Cossacks,"  but  the  star 
act,  the  one  that  is  billed  heaviest  and 
about  which  the  manager  shouts  himself 
red  of  face  and  hoarse  of  voice,  is  the  per 
formance  given  by  Lucifer,  "  whom  the 
management  stands  ready  to  back  as  the 
most  wonderfully  trained  horse  in  the 
world,"  and  "  the  beautiful  Miss  Geral- 
[181] 


JUST   HORSES 

dine  Du  Courcey,  the  only  lady  horse- 
trainer  in  America." 

"  It  was  bred  in  the  bone,  bred  in  the 
bone,"  whines  Aunt  Euphemia  Penny, 
dolefully. 

Professor  T.  Caleb  Norton  says  prac 
tically  the  same  thing,  o.Jy  in  a  different 
manner,  as  he  points  proudly  to  horse  and 
rider.  "  Good  blood  in  'em  both,  sir.  It'll 
show,  blood  will,  every  time." 


[182] 


DEACON: 

AND  HOW  HE  TOOK  OUT  THE 
CHRISTMAS  MAIL 


AND  HOW  HE  TOOK  OUT  THE 
CHRISTMAS  MAIL 

MOST  things  Deacon  took  as  they 
came,  and  with  great  calmness  of 
spirit,  for  he  was  an  even-tempered  old 
horse,  whose  disposition  a  dozen  years, 
filled  with  the  usual  allotment  of  equine 
adversity,  had  thoroughly  seasoned.  Yet 
now  he  was  pawing  and  stamping  as  im 
patiently  as  any  four-year-old.  At  in 
tervals  he  would  stretch  his  neck,  thrust 
forward  his  old  white  nose,  and  indulge  in 
a  complaining  whinny.  There  was  reason 
for  Deacon's  restlessness.  More  than  an 
hour  ago  he  should  have  been  on  the  move, 
but  here  he  was  still  waiting  in  the  post- 
[185] 


JUST    HORSES 

office  shed,  and  never  a  sign  or  word  from 
his  driver.  Deacon,  you  understand, 
pulled  Uncle  Sam's  mail  over  Rural  Free 
Delivery  route  No.  2,  Havertown,  P.  O. 
He  had  pulled  it  for  three  years,  and  he 
was  fairly  well  versed  in  the  business.  At 
any  rate,  he  knew  that  it  was  past  his  start 
ing  time.  Long  before  had  the  sway-back 
sorrel  on  route  No.  1  taken  the  road.  The 
pert  little  bay  mare  on  No.  3  had  followed 
a  few  minutes  later.  Yet  here  was  Dea 
con,  with  the  heaviest  and  longest  route  of 
them  all,  still  standing  idly  in  the  shed. 

No  wonder  Deacon  was  losing  his  tem 
per.  It  was  cold  in  the  shed.  The  fag 
end  of  a  New  England  December  usually 
brings  that  condition.  The  wind,  whist 
ling  through  the  roof  cracks,  sifted  fine, 
powdery  snow,  swept  from  the  glistening 
drifts  outside,  down  on  Deacon's  back. 
To  add  to  other  discomforts,  his  blanket 
[186] 


DEACON 

had  slipped  to  one  side,  and  he  was  stamp 
ing  on  it. 

Something  out  of  the  ordinary  must 
have  happened,  of  course.  But  Deacon, 
although  he  knew  many  things,  had  no 
philosophy  to  console  him.  He  was  chilled 
through,  his  muscles  were  numbed,  and  he 
longed  to  get  out  and  jog  along  over  the 
snowy  roads,  jingling  his  sleigh  bells  and 
stopping  now  and  then  for  a  moment's 
rest. 

Inside,  in  the  Havertown  Postoffice, 
were  a  number  of  men  whose  frame  of 
mind  was  worse  than  Deacon's.  One  of 
them  was  the  postmaster  himself.  In  the 
first  place,  the  simultaneous  arrival  of  a 
three- foot  snow  fall  and  the  bulk  of  the 
Christmas  mail  was  bad  enough.  Next 
came  the  disabling  of  one  of  his  best  driv 
ers,  and  the  discovery  that  two  substitute 
carriers  were  out  of  town.  Well,  the  post- 
[187] 


JUST    HORSES 

master  said  things.  Dan  Sweeney,  driver 
of  No.  2  route,  was  disabled  beyond 
doubt.  There  he  was,  sitting  on  a  pile  of 
mail  sacks,  his  back  against  a  steam  radia 
tor,  his  face  white  and  drawn  out  of  shape 
by  twinges  of  rheumatism.  He  had 
dragged  himself  down  to  the  office,  but 
that  was  all  he  could  do.  Now,  although 
he  should  have  been  sent  back  to  bed,  he 
was  sorting  the  mail  for  his  route.  He 
was  not  doing  it  in  the  wray  he  usually  did 
—a  glance,  a  flash  of  the  hand  and  a  reach 
for  another  letter.  It  wras  a  much  slower 
business,  for  now  and  then  the  pain  would 
grip  him  tight  and  make  him  stop.  Yet 
the  sorting  must  be  done,  and  very  care 
fully,  too,  for  a  man  almost  wholly  new  to 
the  work  was  to  take  it  out. 

'The  Christmas  mail,  too!"  groaned 
Dan.    He  had  a  conscience,  Dan  had,  and 
his  heart  was  in  his  work. 
[188] 


DEACON 

It  was  sight  of  the  great  pile  of  pack 
ages  which  made  Danny  groan  deepest. 
They  were  more  to  him  than  simply  so 
much  fourth-class  matter,  these  string- 
tied  boxes  and  bundles.  They  were  in 
vested  with  something  besides  the  statute- 
guarded  sanctity  of  the  United  States 
mail,  for  which  Dan  Sweeney  had  no  light 
respect.  He  knew  that  each  one  of  them 
carried  not  only  merchandise,  but  a  subtle 
freightage  of  the  goodly  holiday  spirit, 
the  joyful  sentiment  of  Christmastide. 

And  to  think,  just  because  of  this 
plaguey  rheumatism  of  his,  many  of  them 
might  not  be  delivered  until  the  holiday 
was  over  with,  when  they  would  come  lag 
ging  along,  as  stale  as  firecrackers  on  the 
fifth  of  July !  So  Danny  groaned.  There 
was  a  red  cardboard  box,  tied  about  with 
fishing  line — that  was  something  for  the 
Skinner  boy,  out  on  Joel's  road,  from  his 
[189] 


JUST    HORSES 

uncle  in  Nova  Scotia.  There  was  a  big, 
store-wrapped  parcel,  bearing  a  New 
York  postmark — dolls,  probably,  for  the 
Allison  twins  from  their  wealthy  aunt. 
Well,  if  the  twins  got  their  dolls  before 
the  day  after  Christmas  they  would  be 
lucky,  for  on  an  R.  F.  D.  route  you  can 
not  deliver  by  street  numbers.  One  must 
know  the  folks.  And  the  new  man  did  not 
know  them.  'There!"  said  Danny  at 
last,  to  the  office  clerk  who  was  to  attempt 
the  task,  "  you  stow  the  packages  in  just 
that  order  and  do  your  best  to  find  where 
they  go.  Old  Deacon  '11  take  you  over  the 
route  all  right  if  you  give  him  his  head. 
He  knows  it  like  a  book." 

So  the  Christmas  mail  was  finally 
started  out  over  route  No.  2.  Deacon 
turned  an  inquiring  eye  on  the  new  man, 
as  much  as  if  to  ask  what  was  the  matter 
with  Danny.  But  the  office  clerk,  his  per- 
[190] 


DEACON 

plexed  mind  filled  with  the  many  things  he 
had  been  told  to  remember,  paid  no  heed  to 
the  old  white  horse  between  the  shafts. 
Perhaps  he  should  not  be  blamed.  Dea 
con  was  not  handsome.  He  was  chiefly  re 
markable  for  the  soberness  of  his  long 
face,  a  characteristic  which  had  earned  him 
his  name.  Somewhat  stiff  in  the  fore- 
knees  was  Deacon,  and  his  winter  coat  of 
long  white  hair  was  a  bit  shabby  to  look  at. 
Yet  for  all  this,  any  one  who  knew  horses 
could  have  told  by  the  full,  wide-set  eyes, 
by  the  square,  honest  muzzle,  that  Deacon 
was  no  ordinary  "  fool "  horse.  In  fact, 
although  wanting  in  beauty,  and  of  un 
certain  pedigree,  Deacon  lacked  neither 
sense  nor  bottom.  During  the  years  that 
he  and  Danny  had  carried  the  mail  over 
that  route  he  had  learned  every  turn  and 
corner,  every  mail  box  and  stopping  place 
on  it. 

[191] 


No  sooner  had  they  reached  Joel's  road, 
where  the  route  began,  than  Deacon  real 
ized  the  inexperience  of  the  new  man. 
Why,  he  was  actually  going  to  drive  right 
past  the  Powers  place,  and  the  Powerses 
almost  always  had  mail  of  some  kind,  even 
if  it  wasn't  more  than  a  poultry  magazine 
or  a  seed  catalogue.  After  one  or  two  such 
mistakes  Deacon  took  charge  of  things 
himself.  From  house  to  house  he  went, 
stopping  wherever  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  calling,  waiting  until  the  new  car 
rier  found  who  lived  there  and  had  looked 
through  letters  and  parcels  to  see  if  he 
had  anything  for  them. 

It  was  a  long  and  tedious  method.  The 
drifts,  out  on  the  open  roads  beyond  the 
city's  edge,  were  wide  and  deep,  but 
through  them  Deacon  plunged  doggedly, 
behind  him,  lurching  and  careening  like  a 
ship  at  sea,  the  yellow-painted,  glass- 
[192] 


DEACON 

fronted  box  on  runners,  the  box  that  was 
now  so  heavily  laden  with  the  material 
symbols  of  the  Christmas  spirit. 

The  fact  that  every  one  along  the  route 
knew  Deacon  as  far  as  they  could  see  him 
was  a  help.  They  were  generally  on  the 
lookout  for  him,  and  on  this  day  they  were 
watching  closely,  you  may  be  sure.  No 
sooner  did  he  come  to  a  halt  at  a  gate  or  a 
post  than  some  one,  perhaps  half  a  dozen 
eager-eyed  children,  came  running  out  to 
see  what  he  had  brought. 

All  the  forenoon  and  all  the  afternoon 
this  went  on,  but  when  the  red  sun  went 
down  in  the  frosty  west  there  still  re 
mained  half  a  hundred  letters  and  more 
than  a  peck  of  packages  to  be  delivered. 
The  new  man  was  hungry  and  tired,  but 
he  was  no  quitter.  So  he  begged  some  hay 
and  oats  for  Deacon,  borrowed  a  lantern, 
and  together  they  started  to  finish  the 
[193] 


JUST   HORSES 

route.  As  for  Deacon,  his  old  knees  were 
stiffer  than  ever,  his  big  shoulder  muscles 
ached,  his  flanks  heaved  like  a  pair  of 
blacksmith's  bellows,  but  he  plunged  on, 
never  skipping  a  single  house,  never  hesi 
tating  at  a  roundabout  half  mile,  doing  his 
whole  duty  quite  as  thoroughly  as  if  there 
had  been  some  one  behind  to  urge  him  on 
instead  of  a  cold-numbed  clerk  who  no 
longer  even  touched  the  reins.  At  last 
only  one  letter  was  left,  a  thick,  bulky  one 
in  a  blue  waterproof  envelope,  bearing 
a  foreign  postmark.  "  Josiah  Braisted, 
Esq.,"  was  the  address. 

"Braisted,  eh?"  muttered  the  clerk. 
"  Wonder  if  the  old  horse  knows  where  he 
lives?" 

Evidently  Deacon  did,  for  lie  was  plow 
ing  through  a  big  drift,  heading  straight 
out  on  the  Boston  road  into  the  darkness. 
Far  ahead,  on  the  top  of  a  long  hill,  the 
[194] 


DEACON 

clerk  could  see  the  lights  of  a  big  house. 
There  were  no  other  lights  between.  Miles 
behind  he  could  make  out  the  glow  of  the 
city.  The  clerk  wished  he  could  be  back 
there,  where  one  could  be  warm  again  and 
get  something  hot  to  eat.  With  numb  fin 
gers  he  pulled  out  his  watch.  Half -past 
nine!  Why,  it  would  take  them  a  good 
two  hours  to  drive  back  now!  Braisted  be 
hanged!  He  could  get  his  letter  after 
Christmas. 

So  he  grabbed  the  reins  and  indicated 
to  Deacon  a  desire  to  turn  around.  But 
Deacon  would  not  turn.  Pull  on  the  rein 
as  he  might,  Deacon  would  only  swing  his 
head  about,  keeping  his  legs  moving 
straight  ahead.  By  much  shouting  and 
sawing  on  the  reins  Deacon  was  stopped. 
Then  the  new  driver  waded  out  to  his 
head,  took  him  by  the  bits  and  tried  to 
point  the  horse  the  other  way.  Deacon 
[195] 


JUST    HORSES 

refused  to  budge.  Those  lights  on  the  top 
of  the  long  hill  marked  the  end  of  the 
route,  and  Deacon  knew  it.  And  to  those 
lights  they  went.  "  Josiah  Braisted?" 
asked  the  driver  curtly  of  the  young 
woman  who  answered  his  ring. 

"  Oh,  it's  come;  it's  come!  "  she  shouted 
to  some  one  within,  as  she  held  out  her 
hand  eagerly  for  the  letter. 

Never  before  had  he  seen  so  much  ex 
citement  caused  by  the  delivery  of  a  letter. 
In  a  moment  there  were  three  or  four  per 
sons  in  the  front  hall,  all  talking  at  once. 

"Do  you  think  it  will  save  him,  doc 
tor?  "  asked  the  anxious  faced  old  lady 
who  had  followed  the  girl  to  the  door. 

:'  It  will  if  anything  will,  I  guess,"  an 
swered  a  stout,  bearded  man.  And  he 
mounted  the  stairs  to  see  the  patient  in 
the  upper  room. 

Then  they  insisted  that  the  half-frozen 
[196] 


DEACON    REFUSED    TO    BUDGE 


DEACON 

clerk  come  inside  and  have  something  to 
eat.  Deacon?  Oh,  they  would  take  care 
of  Deacon.  They  did  all  this  and  more. 
It  seemed  that  this  letter  had  been  long 
expected,  and  was  sadly  needed,  for  it 
came  from  a  prodigal  son  to  a  very  sick 
father.  It  had  its  effect,  too. 

Of  course  the  clerk  told  them  of  Dea 
con's  heroic  stubbornness,  of  how  the  old 
horse  had  insisted  on  going  to  the  very  end 
of  the  route  when  he  had  tried  to  turn  him 
back.  Josiah  Braisted,  Esq.,  heard  the 
story  during  his  convalescence. 

"  I  must  tell  my  son  about  that  when  He 
comes  home,"  he  would  repeat  as  they  told 
him  of  the  part  Deacon  played  in  the 
story.  ''  We  ought  to  do  something  for 
that  old  horse,"  he  said. 

They  did,  too.  The  office  clerk,  who 
will  first  show  you  a  handsome  gold  watch, 
tells  the  story  best,  always  ending  with, 
[197] 


JUST   HORSES 

"  And  old  Deacon,  why,  he  lives  out  tHere 
on  the  Braisted  place  like  a  thoroughbred. 
He's  in  clover,  he  is." 

"  Well,"  Dan  Sweeney  will  add, "  it's  no 
more'n  he  deserves.  Old  Deacon  was  a 
mighty  good  horse  in  his  day,  and  mighty 
knowin'." 


[198] 


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